Dawn's Beauty
by countess z
Summary: This is the Oblivion Crisis through the eyes of those who lived it; of assassins and priests, thieves and city guards, nobles and peasants, heroes and villains. Most of their names would be forgotten in the years to come. Yet each one had a story of their own to tell.
1. Captain Renault

**A/N: The concept for this story was inspired by maximsk's "The Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine," featuring a different character from the game in each chapter. His story is originally about Skyrim. I decided to adapt the idea for the characters of Oblivion. Enjoy!**

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 **27 Last Seed, 3E 433**

 **4:55 AM**

 **Imperial City, Imperial Prison.**

Even though Captain Renault could hear His Majesty panting breathlessly behind her, struggling to keep up with their relentless pace, she kept looking back just to make sure that he was still there.

As Renault led the formation, Baurus protected Uriel Septim's rear, while Glenroy and Haydée flanked the Emperor's sides. This was the largest detail the Blades could afford at this crucial hour, as it was also vital that Cloud Ruler Temple remain secure for their arrival.

Her heart was beating in time to their hurried footsteps pounding the stone floor. Four pairs of sabatons clunked noisily down the labyrinthine corridors of the Imperial Prison, drowning out the Emperor's light shuffling suede boots and the rustling regal finery. Renault herself had pleaded he wear something less conspicuous when she went to pick him up in his chambers, but he had only smiled joylessly and said "If I am to die tonight, I will die like an Emperor."

As the Captain of his personal guard, she wanted to mention how much of a walking target he appeared in his dark velvet fur-trimmed robes with the Amulet of Kings displayed ostentatiously around his neck, but the Emperor did not need her to tell him this; he was no fool.

Uriel Septim knew something that they all did not. His somber gray eyes were seeing further than any of them could. Renault tried to spare him the full truth about his sons in the hopes that he would not be weighed down by his own despair until they arrived safely at Cloud Ruler Temple, but he already knew. Perhaps he had known weeks before it even happened. This was a man with a tranquil resignation, accepting whatever fate he already assumed would befall him. Renault was frightened of whatever truths he might know. Perhaps she wanted him to confide his dreams to her, so that there would be a chance to change this bittersweet fate, but destiny was such a delicate matter. To tug at one thread was to unravel the entire tapestry, unmake the Divine plan. All Renault could do was continue trusting the Emperor she had sworn to protect the past twenty odd years.

All she had to do was get the Emperor to safety. At Cloud Ruler Temple, they all would be safe.

 _Safe._ Could they even use that word to describe their situation anymore? All three of the Emperor's sons were dead, assassinated unseen in one night, and a crushing doom of blood and fire hung imminent over all of them. By 'all of them' she did not merely mean the Empire, no. The fate of Tamriel, nay, the stability of the entire Aurbis hinged on the continuation of the Septim line. And Uriel was the last living Septim, as far as anyone knew.

"We're nearly to the passage, sire. As soon as we are out of here we will regroup with the others at Fort Chalman nearby. They'll have horses shoed and saddled for us, ready to go. From there, we-"

Renault came to an abrupt halt.

Not even waiting a second, Glenroy let out an impatient sigh.

"Captain, with all due respect-"

The Captain silenced him with one raised index finger. Something wasn't right. She had heard something over the noisy footsteps, a sixth set of unfamiliar feet. Light boots, leather perhaps. Not the soft patter of the Emperor's suede shoes, or the distinctive thunk of the Blades' Akaviri steel against stone.

Several agonizing seconds passed. All of them had their hands on the hilts of their swords.

Haydée removed her hand from her weapon, perhaps hoping to cast Dispel to reveal any invisible lurkers. The pale magic coiled around her arm halfway, but before she could complete the spell she shrieked. The wisps of light faded into nothingness. Everything was happening so fast. A hooded monster obscured by evil obsidian-black armor revealed itself, hand still clutching the blade stuck into Haydée's right underarm. They forced her to the ground with great brutish strength.

Renault moved quickly to engage the assassin, who immediately faced her, brandishing a terrible flanged mace that appeared Daedric in make. But their movements were surprisingly slow and clumsy, much like some inexperienced farmboy newly recruited in the Legion. At least she wasn't facing off against a Dremora. If that were the case, she may have had _slightly_ more trouble blocking their slow, obvious attacks. Renault bashed them in their masked face with her shield. The assailant let out a decidedly male-sounding grunt and stumbled backwards. Something else was happening. Another dark figure appeared. Where were they all coming from? Renault was locked into combat and could not intervene. She could only watch as the figure lunged towards the Emperor. Baurus instantly stepped in the way, and Captain Renault cringed, thinking for a split second the Redguard was about to take the blow. Instead, Baurus grabbed the figure's armored wrist mid-lunge. He'd just stopped the knife mere inches from the Emperor's ribcage.

Glenroy was already closing in for the kill. Renault knew they would be able to handle that one themselves. Two elite Blades against one of the expendable acolytes the enemy had sent.

Her own suicidal opponent managed to surprise her with a fast shock spell in her face as she blocked yet another heavy attack from his weapon. Electricity seized her brain and tingled down her spine and she couldn't breathe for several seconds, seeing nothing but white light.

"Paradise awaits!" a distant-sounding voice called out through the ringing in her ears. The assassin had the accent of a Nord.

Renault blinked twice and she realized she was on the floor. She raised her shield and her opponent's mace bounced off against it yet again. In the distance she heard Haydée crying out in pain, something about not being able to use her magicka. At first everything seemed to be in slow motion, but time resumed to its normal pace. Time... how much time had she lost? She was still alive, so likely mere seconds. She would thank Akatosh later.

The Breton thought she might throw up. That was a direct shock spell. It was worse than a concussive blow to her head. But she sent a kick to the dark stranger's groin and relied heavily on the wall for support as she dragged herself back on her feet. One more deflection, and she immediately reached for her steel shortsword, thrusting it upwards through the area exposed by his raised chin.

The black armor vanished into noxious smoky wisps. Bound armor. The Nord's neck sprayed a fountain of blood all over the rest of him, but it didn't do much to stain his robes which were already a vivid crimson. He had a boyish face – not even mature enough for a beard, and shaggy dirty blonde hair. The nausea hit her again and her eyes began to water. Renault didn't know if she was merely disgusted at the sight of a boy no older than sixteen recruited to martyr himself for this vile task, or if she was still ill from the shock spell, but she turned around and retched, heaving up what was left in her stomach. The other assailant – an Imperial woman – was also dead by now, wearing the same robes of brilliant scarlet as the Nord boy.

No time. No time. Captain Renault helped the Emperor to his feet, though she could hardly stand on her own.

"Are you alright, sire?" she asked. His old frame suddenly felt so frail and vulnerable as she supported him.

"I am unhurt. Knight Haydée... she has been wounded with a poisoned blade. It is a toxin most grievous - even the magicka has been drained from her body. But perhaps if we-" he stopped himself, then shook his head helplessly, with that same sad smile of a man who knew too much about a fate that he could not change. Did he know who had attacked them? If he did, Renault would have appreciated any insight.

It looked to be the work of a Daedric cult, but there was no use wasting energy thinking about _who_ they were, when all she needed to focus on how to get the Emperor _away_ from them.

"Let's keep moving," she commanded, her vision still a nauseating double-image.

"But – Captain – Haydée-" Baurus started. He and Glenroy were hovering over the unconscious Breton's body, as if prepared to lift her. That may have been standard procedure, if saving Haydée did not interfere with the immediate safety of Emperor Uriel Septim. But right now they had no _time_.

"Do not burden yourselves with dead weight. Fall back into your positions. There's no time. Let's _move!_ " the Captain barked. Shouting made her head throb even more. She had to stop doing that.

As soon as Renault started marching the others shuffled into formation. She was aware that she could not quite walk in a straight line. Ugh, she felt so sick... If they were ambushed again, she would not be able to fight to the best of her ability...

"If I might stay behind to see what I may do for her with a potion.." the young Redguard blustered as they ran. Though a frighteningly competent fighter, Baurus was still green as grass. Empathy was a pesky thing for a Blade to hold on to. Baurus needed to learn this.

"Don't be ridiculous. I _need_ you, Baurus. The Emperor needs you."

Baurus did not dare question her order again, but she could feel him staring with silent resentment boring into her back. He knew his duty. It didn't mean he had to like it. Renault didn't like it, either. But she would have expected them to leave her behind too. Oh, by the Divines, she would give her life willingly right now if it would guarantee the others safe passage to Cloud Ruler Temple.

They stopped in front of an iron grate, barring them entry to Cell Block West One. They were so close...

"Allow me, Captain."

Glenroy was already heading straight for the crank wheel that lifted the door.

Renault rather liked it when they did things without her having to tell them.

An iron chain rattled and the grate slowly crawled upwards.

Baurus, staring at the floor, began to utter a prayer, softly.

"Divine Arkay, thou who maintains balance in the cycles of nature, who oversees all births and deaths, we seek thy blessing, for the departure of Haydée from this mortal plane is nigh upon us. Let not her mortal vessel- fall- fall-"

The Redguard choked on his words, his normally even demeanor chipping away, but the somber baritone of Uriel Septim joined the prayer. Renault felt the hairs on her arm stand up at the Emperor's capacity for compassion. When had he been able to speak a prayer for his own sons?

"Let not her mortal vessel fall to the hands of vile creatures who would profane it with unspeakable abominations. We pray thee, put behind thee her faults. Protect her with thy blessing and lay open the path upon the commencement of her voyage to the afterlife, wherever it may be."

"Gate's up, let's move," Renault said, abruptly interrupting their profound moment as she led them onwards. They would have time later for this.

"Baurus! Lock that door behind us!" Renault ordered once all of them were through yet another door right after the grate.

"My sons..."

Captain Renault stopped, turned about face. Uriel Septim was speaking to her.

"They're dead, aren't they?"

His words were blunt, but they felt sharper than any knife in her chest. She swallowed, fishing for the proper words to say to him. Her mouth suddenly felt dry. She desperately wanted to assuage him, to give him enough hope to at least make it to Cloud Ruler Temple.

"We don't know that, Sire. The messenger only said they were attacked," she repeated uselessly for perhaps the third time tonight.

Renault was trying to avoid eye contact, but the Emperor's solemn gaze did not falter. His eyes were shimmering as the wrinkles around them creased.

"No. They're dead. I know it."

The Breton turned around again, trying her best to ignore him.

"Right now, my job is to get you to safety. We're headed for a secret passage known only to the Blades. No one can follow us through here."

She wasn't entirely sure about that last part.

As she led along the rows of cells, she wondered how many prisoners were watching. Most were asleep in their bedrolls, but some were still up and about. Imperial prisons made Renault feel uneasy. Perhaps only the guilty-hearted had something to fear, but she could not deny the crushing feeling of hopelessness and despair she felt every time she walked in here and saw them staring into emptiness with dead eyes.

Finally, she stopped in front of the cell marked W1-11. This was it. This was the cell with a hidden passage that led to the sewers, the one the guards were ordered to keep vacant at all times.

And some _prisoner_ in sackcloth rags was occupying it.

A dark-skinned female – Redguard, most likely – sat on the stone floor, leaning her back against the wall, long legs splayed out in front of her in a bored, lackadaisical manner. With an index finger she idly drew swirling patterns in the dust on the ground. Her body was well-toned, muscular, but her athletic build was a good enough indicator to Renault that this person had not been imprisoned for very long. If she'd been here longer her thick, wiry hair wouldn't be cropped so close to her head, either. Renault wondered what she had done to get herself locked up in here. This person didn't look like an underfed bandit or a petty thief. Something was very strange about all of this...

The Redguard woman eventually noticed she had company, and tilted her head in Renault's direction, eyebrows raising. Her dark eyes were not yet dead. Maybe this person was planted here by the enemy. That was a possibility. Renault _hoped_ it was merely a result of the usual incompetence of the City Watch. It would make a lot of sense to kill her just in case, but somehow that didn't feel right, either. This woman obviously looked like she could handle herself in a fight. It may even be useful to take her along with them... if they could trust her.

With all of this uncertainty on what to do with the prisoner, the Captain's frustration was mounting at an alarming rate. This – this was _not_ part of her plan. She couldn't help but demand answers from the others.

"What's this prisoner doing here? This cell is supposed to be off-limits!"


	2. Ulrich Leland

**30 Last Seed, 3E 433**

 **11:45 PM**

 **Cheydinhal**

It was a peaceful night in Cheydinhal.

Ulrich Leland could not say this often. Not in a town where Dark Elves made up a third of the population. Now, it wasn't that Ulrich was prejudiced, mind, but he'd always known there was a strong correlation between being a Dark Elf and being a criminal. Anyone who didn't believe him, well, he'd invite them to look at the inmate register in the castle dungeons. No Imperial could argue with the facts when they were presented on a neatly organized list.

Ever since that courier burst through the gates the other day, spouting some rot about the Emperor's assassination and Tamriel's impending _doom_ (the courier shouted the word ' _doom'_ a lot), most folks took to staying indoors at night.

Ulrich had yet to see any signs of _doom_ lurking near the stone walls of Cheydinhal. They'd find someone else to put on the throne, surely. That skeever-faced elf Ocato obviously didn't hesitate to leap at the opportunity.

The others were in a frenzy, speaking in frantic whispers as if all Oblivion would break loose, raining _doom_ upon all of Cyrodiil because they didn't have another Septim to wear some necklace. Fools. Gullible fools. Ulrich suspected the whole history with the Dragonfires and the Amulet of Kings was little more than clever propaganda to keep the Septim line reigning by virtue of their birthright. What kind of idiotic god would entrust a single mortal bloodline with so much responsibility? Sure, he understood the end of a dynasty meant a lot of changes for the Empire. There would be plenty of unrest and reorganization in the Imperial City, but Ulrich highly doubted that _doom_ was spelled on the horizon.

Everything was just as it was before the Emperor's death, in Cheydinhal at least. As he patrolled around the Great Chapel of Arkay, nothing. A timber wolf brayed in the distance. It almost sounded like it was howling ' _doom._ ' But it wasn't, because that would be stupid.

He'd only arrested two people in the last three days. No arrests meant no fines. This put him in a sour mood, because he had to live off the pitiful salary the Count afforded him and he couldn't send any extra money to his cousins.

Ulrich was irked. More than irked, he was downright vexed. At this point, he didn't even care about finding some revelers to fine for drunk and disorderly conduct. He just needed to take his frustration out on something.

That 'something' happened to be a bum curled up in a moldy bedroll in the grass behind the chapel.

He'd had run-ins with this one before. Braccius, Bruccius something. Ulrich couldn't be bothered to remember. Some middle-aged, dirty Imperial down-on-his-luck, probably claimed to be a war veteran or something and blamed the Empire for all of his woes; all their stories ended up sounding the same.

With torch in one hand, Ulrich kicked the sleeping vagrant. That probably hurt a lot, especially with the mail boots he was wearing. The Imperial made a gurgling, choking noise and opened his eyes, wide and glassy.

"On your feet, scum!" Ulrich commanded. Broccius (or was it Bloccius?) stumbled up, hunched over and gasping for breath with his huge fish-mouth, clutching his side in pain. He smelled like an armpit. Probably because he hadn't washed himself or his trousers since the Warp in the West.

"M'lord, please, I – don't want any trouble, I- I- there's nowhere else for me to -" Bruttius sputtered, spittle flying out of his mouth at an alarming rate.

"Enough of your excuses, cur. Do you realize that vagrancy is a crime punishable by a minimum of fifty septims?"

Briefly, Ulrich wondered if they were going to have to start calling their currency something else now that the Septims were history. He hoped they weren't going to stamp Chancellor Ocato's skeever-face on the coins.

"It is? I – I mean, I'm sorry, m'lord! I don't got fifty septims – gods, p-please don't hurt me again-" Blarccius was shivering so bad that he could hardly speak. Ulrich scoffed. Beggars always tried to make themselves look so pathetic.

"Then you're coming with me."

As Ulrich reached for his ropes to bind him, he stopped midway when he saw something far more interesting.

He squinted at the sight. A feminine silhouette was just crossing the main bridge over the stream, but she stopped, leaning over to stare at the tributary below.

What could she possibly be doing outside at this hour?

Ulrich knew she wasn't out on a simple nature walk. Not with all of this purported _doom_ outside.

"Actually, I'll let you off easy this time. But you'd do well not to cross me again," he muttered to the greasy Imperial, giving him one last shove as he marched past him.

Making no attempts at stealth in his clunky armored boots, Ulrich drew closer to the woman, who was either oblivious or chose not to reveal that she was aware of his presence. A waif of a Breton lass he saw in profile by the light of his torch. The comely sort, with flaxen hair and delicate features. Her pale hands clasped the railing and he could see the little bones in her fingers.

Ulrich waited there a few feet away from her on the wooden bridge, watching her, listening to the water passing beneath them.

Finally, the woman turned around slowly, placing a hand over her heart with a great theatrical gasp as soon as she noticed him.

"Ah!" she exclaimed. Her eyes reflected the fire of his torch and were the bluest blue he had ever seen, wide and owlish, especially large on her small face.

Was she feigning surprise or had she truly not heard his boots thunking against the creaky bridge or seen the light of his torch? He supposed the babbling stream was sort of noisy, but it was dangerous for such a sweet creature as her to be so unaware of her own surroundings.

"I apologize if I have startled you. However, I must inform you that loitering is prohibited at this hour."

Ulrich examined her further, already able to make several assumptions about who she was. It was one of the many reasons why he was so good at his job.

She looked more like a girl than a woman. Her lovely blonde hair was long and uncovered, untied. Just messily parted and strewn about her shoulders. She wore a dress in bright, gaudy colors, nothing a noble would be caught dead wearing, and the bodice was only half-laced, its dangerous neckline teasing him. Her stockings were torn and her leather shoes were patched at the toes. Ulrich had no doubt in his mind – this woman was a harlot.

Heat shuddered through his body. He wondered what she charged – not like it mattered. He didn't need to pay her. What was she going to do? Call the guards on him?

"I mean no harm, good sir..." she spoke in such a tiny, girlish voice, raising up her thin arms defensively as if she thought he would hit her or something. "I've been banished from my own home. My father is ashamed to speak my name. I have nary a drake to my name and nowhere to sleep."

The Breton woman looked away from him, sighing dejectedly as her hands returned to her sides. She sounded weak, desperate. Like her spirit had been broken. He could work with this.

"No need to apologize," Ulrich reassured, putting on a gentle, easy tone for her. "Is there any way I can help? Helping citizens in need _is_ my duty, after all."

The girl shook her head vigorously, her hair becoming even more of a mess as it swished back and forth. Ulrich shifted his weight to one side impatiently.

"Oh! No, sir. I'm no innocent. I'm the sort you'd be lief to clap in irons than help," she said. It was getting difficult to hear her because she kept turning her head away from him.

"Nonsense, my dear. Ah, forgive my manners; I've neglected to introduce myself. Ulrich Leland, captain of the Cheydinhal city watch."

The girl placed her hand on her mouth shyly.

"Call me Marie," she said through her fingers.

"Marie. What a pretty name. Still, I think you better follow me. You look like you could use some warmer clothes and something to eat. I could arrange something with Mariana at the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn on your behalf."

But Marie did not budge. She only stood there dumbly.

"I... have no way to pay you for your kindness."

She enunciated this words slow and clear with a hint of suspicion. Implying he was going to demand some other kind of payment, from _her?_ Ha! What a presumptuous bitch. She'd probably fabricated that sad story, too. Ulrich was willing to bet she offended a client and got kicked out of whatever brothel she worked at.

"We'll worry about that later, yes? There are ruffians prowling at this hour; I'd hate to hear about you getting hurt. Really. I _insist._ "

Just as he'd caught the undertones of her speech, she understood the subtle threat in his own. That got Marie to move. Slowly. Good. She wasn't such a rock-brained moron, after all. They both knew the implicit arrangement. She'd give him what he wanted and he'd set her up with a room at the inn for a night or two, until she had to coerce more favors from people. Maybe Ulrich himself again, if he was feeling particularly _kind_ that night.

Ulrich led the lady of the night across the bridge, guided by the light of his torch. They hiked up the meandering hill leading towards Castle Cheydinhal, until he took a detour and cut across the grass. Marie wasn't even asking any questions. There was a place they could go, at the very top of the hill overlooking the rest of the city, between a mostly abandoned guard tower and the city walls. Isolated. Quiet.

He had to move his torch between his hands as he removed his gauntlets.

"Uh... you want me to..." Marie pointed to the ground, tilting her head coquettishly. "Right here?"

Ulrich extinguished his torch in the damp grass and tossed it aside. His heavy hands found her shoulders in the dark. This would be easy. She was a thin, fragile thing, and not some she-wolf Nord like he'd had to deal with before.

"Would you prefer the inside of a jail cell?" he murmured in her ear.

She asked no more questions. Not even when he helped her find the ground. He liked it that she knew her place. The girl even began to help him with the straps of his cuirass. As he crouched over her in the darkness he caught a whiff of her cheap perfume which smelled more like a failed alchemy experiment than anything else.

With his chest armor removed he began to work on the legplates, guiding her small hands to the buckles.

Something felt sharp in his gut. And then his torso was wet. It took him several seconds to realize what it was. A blade, right in his belly. Rage distracted Ulrich from the immediate pain and he tried to spat profanities at her but he was only choking on his own spit. Shuddering, a certain coldness seized him.

He tried to reach for his own knife to defend himself, but he couldn't even reach his belt. His limbs stiffened corpse-like and he couldn't move. That wasn't perfume he had been smelling. It was paralysis poison.

Was he going to die here?

Arkay be damned, he hadn't the slightest idea what to think of this.

She skittered safely out from under him as he crumpled to the ground, on top of the dagger. The wench was giggling, gods, she was _laughing_ at him in this horrid, girlish titter.

"You really are as stupid as you look, aren't you?" she cooed.

He couldn't move, no matter how much he wanted to wring her dainty little neck right now.

Ulrich just lay there like a dumb animal on top of the knife which was sinking deeper into his gut. He couldn't see a damn thing but the stars in his eyes. The night had grown so cold. This didn't feel real.

The girl – he was so furious he'd already forgotten her name – leaned close. What was she going to do to him? In his mind he cursed the wench, cursed her family, her descendants and her ancestors, cursed whatever plane of Oblivion she crawled out of, cursed every whore he'd ever known and all the ones that were not yet born, but it was no use. She had him now. He was at her mercy.

In an act of unnecessary sadism she gave the dagger a sharp twist before pulling it out. Tremors went up and down his body like a hundred thousand spiders crawling all over him.

"Tonight, you die in the name of Sithis," she whispered in his ear. Her soft breath tickled his face.

Then, she made a clicking sound with her tongue.

"Oh, but I wish I could have killed you earlier! I'd have done it without a contract, you know. That's how much I like you."

Sithis... contracts... what little Ulrich knew about the Dark Brotherhood flashed in his mind. Someone had paid this wench to kill him? That didn't even matter – he'd slipped, made one small mistake, and now whoever wanted him dead would get what they wanted. Damn the Nine Divines, damn the Septims, damn the whores, damn the Dark Brotherhood, damn the elves, damn everything in this miserable world to Oblivion!

Damn Ulrich Leland most of all. He could only blame himself for this. If only he'd been more careful -

She was rolling him down the slope now, and his rigid body was headed straight for the river. Gods, not this, anything but this. When he was a little boy he nearly drowned caught in the undertow but his father pulled him out – not this, no, NO anything but this, he'd avoided the water since. He was screaming in his mind begging he would do anything for her anything just to make this stop. Helpless, this was what it was to be helpless, no one would save him he couldn't move he couldn't move not the water gods please if only he could pass out before the – before the – the water stung like needles everything was cold and wet so cold and then


	3. Millona Umbranox

**1 Hearthfire, 3E 433**

 **6:40 PM**

 **Castle Anvil County Hall**

"Dairihill..."

From the throne room, Millona called for her steward.

In an instant, the Bosmer woman was fluttering down the steps, skirts gathered in her hands.

"Yes, Lady Umbranox?"

Dairihill, youthfully enthusiastic in her duty, stopped just beside the dais Millona was seated on, gazing in anticipation with wide amber eyes.

"I..." the Countess shook her head. It was strange. She could hardly remember _why_ she wanted to ask this of her, but it was something of the utmost importance. "That man who came in earlier. Who was he?"

"Ah, yes, I remember a man coming to see you. I don't believe he left a name," the Bosmer said, already distracted by something else – she kept looking above Millona's head, at the vaulted ceiling. Millona gazed up as well. A dove was trapped in the castle hall, doomed to flutter helplessly at the top, banging itself repeatedly against the slit windows it couldn't fit through. Millona sighed. This happened sometimes. It was a bit tragic. All they could do was wait until it fell over, dead.

They both watched the sad bird flying relentlessly against the stone walls for a while, until Dairihill finally spoke again.

"Did you need me for something, my lady?"

The Countess frowned. Why had she called her down in the first place? Something about a visitor... it caused a terrific aching in her head when she thought about it. Ah, well. Perhaps it would return to her.

"Only to tell you that I haven't forgotten about the posting for a new guard captain. I promise I will look over your cousin's letter of recommendation on the morrow."

"Is – is that all?" asked Dairihill hesitantly. "Shall I remind you before or after you hold court?"

 _Remind_ her. They believed Millona to be losing her mind. Called her forgetful, or flighty. In truth, she only forgot certain things. Unimportant, frivolous details of a past life she had no desire to relive.

Still, she smiled graciously, ignoring Dairihill's lack of scruples.

"No need to bother yourself with that. I'm certain I can manage to remember a letter."

Dairihill promptly dismissed herself. It was nearing some time later that the Bosmer returned to inform Millona that her seat at the dining hall was ready.

"And have all the guests arrived?" she inquired.

"Yes, all six."

Only six? She could have sworn she had invited ten, but it was raining tonight, and too many courtiers seemed to have an aversion to getting wet.

"Splendid."

Dairihill offered her hand. Millona smoothed out her blue velvet skirt and allowed her steward to help her rise to her feet. Hands behind her back, she followed behind, waiting for Dairihill to open the door for her before letting herself in. In truth, the Countess despised all the rules of etiquette and ceremony she was expected to observe, and she'd prefer to be judged by her actions rather than her status, but it seemed to please the rest of the court when she behaved like a Countess ought to, even if it made her feel as if she were unfairly putting herself in a position of superiority while others waited on her.

Of course, as soon as she entered her dinner guests immediately stood. Millona smiled and waved a hand so that they would resume sitting.

Two of the servants, Colin and Beatrice, stood just behind the wine counter, standing out of the way, yet still conveniently at hand, waiting for some dire event like a guest's wine glass to empty so that they could immediately rectify it. Again, this type of subservient behavior often felt a bit unnecessary, but it seemed to please the servants when she made a point to appreciate them.

"Ah, you've brought out the blue curtains from Wayrest. These are my favorite, you know," she mentioned, directly addressing the young pair of servants with a warm smile. Colin and Beatrice looked at each other, then at the floor, as if unsure whether or not they were allowed to respond. Beatrice nudged Colin, and the mousy-haired Breton mumbled a bashful "thanks, m'lady" to Millona.

But the next thing that Millona beheld – dreamlike in the hazy candlelight - stole her breath straight away.

At the middle table, where the Countess normally sat alone, surrounded by two tables on opposing ends in a bracket shape, she saw it right beside her own chair. Something that didn't belong there. Not in the slightest.

A throne. _His_ throne.

"Who..." she uttered slowly, aghast, arm trembling as she pointed at the seat.

She'd thought they'd locked it away in a storage room after he'd disappeared.

Inexplicable emotions stirred inside of her. It was only ten years ago, they said, but it felt like an eternity. The two thrones once sat side-by-side in the County Hall. The Count and Countess Umbranox of County Anvil. Who was the Count? What was his name? It was strange – she must have loved him deeply in the past, and the feelings were still present, but she could hardly remember anything of the nameless one she called her husband. She remembered dancing with a faceless man in an empty ballroom without music, the faceless man beside her in the throne room, the faceless man leaning back in his seat at the breakfast table with a sweetroll in one hand and a copy of the Black Horse Courier in the other. In the incomplete memories he had always been there for her, listened patiently, never spoke an unkind word to her – why did they say he abandoned her? She did not understand, and her head was throbbing something awful.

What was his _name?_

"Who would place this seat beside my own?" she demanded.

No one spoke. The hearth crackled loudly.

The two servants seemed just as horrified. Beatrice went forward, terror in her eyes as she attempted to explain, hands flying all over.

"M'lady, please forgive us, neither of us touched it- didn't even see it until-"

Millona held a hand up for the frightened girl to stop talking.

"Never mind that. Just... remove it from my sight, would you?"

Hours later, as she lay comfortably in the safety of her own bedchamber, Millona's repose was fraught with nightmares of the face she could not recognize, the face of the man whose warmth may have occupied the space beside her. Why could she not remember her husband? Ten years – why, she remembered others from that time – there was someone else – a charming dark elf bard named Emer Dareloth. He'd been in the last dream, too, his ash-gray features sharp and clear. One day, he came to play for the court. That was the day her husband went missing, was it not? Why did she remember the face of this bard, and not that of the Count?

The memories were locked away, just barely out of reach, and the more she tried to think about them the more they faded into nothingness.

Dressed in her nightclothes, stockinged feet tiptoeing down the steps to the empty County Hall, Millona stood alone, holding a single candle in front of the dais. The trapped bird was still fluttering at the ceiling. Millona could hear it but it was too dark to see the dove.

She fixed her eyes ahead of her.

There was one throne upon the raised platform. Her throne. There would have been enough room for two. For his throne. But he was gone now.

"I miss you," she whispered, her breath hitching in her throat. "I really do."


	4. Gepard Montrose

**31 Last Seed, 3E 433**

 **8:30 AM**

 **Imperial Prison Sewers, Subterrane.**

"This place looks different from when I last saw it."

That was Baurus, the Blade that had come to meet Captain Gepard Montrose, whose voice and footsteps echoed through the subterranean sanctum. Indeed, Gepard's desk and chair (and myriad of barely-organized folders and notes) were new additions, along with all the flickering candles brought in to illuminate the cavern. Perhaps his colleagues considered it somewhat macabre of him to move his office to the very place where Emperor Uriel Septim (Akatosh rest his soul) had been murdered, but this damp, underground chamber was the most convenient location for his purposes.

"Yes, well, I thought to oversee the investigation from here. I've ordered both entrances to be sealed. No one can barge in unannounced to disrupt my work," he responded, leading the Blade over to an empty chair.

"Except me." Baurus smiled wryly.

"Except you."

"So, have you made any progress on the investigation itself?" the Redguard asked, turning his chair around to face the Captain. His voice was smooth as cream. Gepard imagined he could listen to him read the prison's arrest log and it'd still sound fascinating.

He gestured towards the corpse of the crimson-robed assassin lying supine on the table. A priest of Arkay had arrived to treat the body with salts to slow the process of decay, but Gepard still ordered two bushels of lavender to be brought in to mask the scent of death. Really, all that had done was make the sanctum smell of lavender _and_ death.

"No luck so far. I've long ruled out the Dark Brotherhood as a suspect. Without giving the Brotherhood too much credit, these assassins... they simply aren't of the same caliber. They are sloppy... inexperienced. I doubt any of them were planning on surviving the attack."

Baurus was nodding politely, not following through with any comments of his own. It almost gave the impression that his inquiry into the investigation was nothing more than a formality. Gepard sighed and continued.

"Ah, but that's all I know. Forgive my candor, sir, but I might have made more progress with the case if you had not specifically tasked me, the Captain, with gathering information on a seemingly inconsequential prisoner. I mean, her story's a bit, erm, _interesting_ , don't get me wrong. But such a task would have been better-suited to someone else. There is absolutely no evidence implicating her in the Emperor's assassination..."

Gepard stopped talking when he noticed that Baurus was distracted by something else in the room. The Blade wore his professional distance as well as armor, but there was no denying the austere look of resolve hardening his face as he stared through a certain arched entryway. That was the very location where the Emperor had been murdered. Gepard would never forget that terrible morning... seeing Uriel Septim's body sprawled in such an unceremonious position, robes stained with blood. He couldn't even imagine what Baurus was thinking right now.

Gepard softened his voice.

"I'm sorry. It must be hard for you to come back to this place. You were there, weren't you?"

"So was _she_." came Baurus' acrid reply, turning his sharp eyes on Gepard again. "And, if I'm not mistaken, it was on your watch that that prisoner happened to occupy that cell, the cell we had ordered you not to fill under any circumstances. However, your... concern over my own proceedings has been duly noted."

Perhaps it would be a bad time for Gepard to bring up that it was on Baurus' watch that the Emperor was assassinated. In his opinion that was a bit worse than accidentally placing a nonviolent prisoner in an off-limits cell. But he admitted his own fault, and would not have blamed the Blade for the Emperor's assassination, either.

Gepard was at least relieved that the prisoner seemed to be altogether innocent in all of this, aside from the crime she was originally imprisoned for, of course. Now he could rest easy without any charges of high treason due to a clerical error. He'd only just been promoted to Captain of the Imperial Prison Guard two weeks before the assassination. Far more grievous mistakes had been committed by his predecessors. What rotten luck that he was the one actually getting reprimanded for his blunder!

"I did prepare a dossier for you, as you asked," Gepard said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had ensued after the tense exchange.

Baurus easily fell back into his affable demeanor, even going so far as to smile at him.

"Care to brief me on its contents?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at Gepard, who was now a bit disarmed at the sudden change.

The Breton shuffled through a stack of papers on his desk until he found his own notes.

He cleared his throat and read from his blocky handwriting.

"The escaped prisoner's name is Mona do Stros M'Kai No Sh- haah, er, I uh, I actually can't read that last part," he muttered, feeling his face redden. Last night he'd gotten a little careless and spilled candle wax in the upper left corner, covering the rest of her name. At least these were his personal notes and not an original document.

"It probably says 'No Shira.' A long time ago it was an indicator of nobility, but some wealthy Forebears have started adding it to their names if they can trace their heritage back far enough to find a drop of noble blood. Makes them feel important or something. Go on."

Great. Baurus already seemed to know more about the prisoner than Gepard did.

"Well, this is the interesting part. She's the firstborn daughter of the Grand Vizier of Stros M'Kai. That makes her a... uh..."

"It _should_ make her nothing, because in Hammerfell, officials are elected into their positions, not born. At least in theory. We all know what really happens. Vizier's daughter, though? Damn. Must have been a cushy life."

"Right. Well, apparently she didn't like her cushy life that much, because she disappeared just before she turned twenty. Turned out she fled on a barge to Anvil and enlisted in the Imperial Legion, Naval Auxiliary. Signed up for four years. She was already recruited as a midshipman because the Admiral that processed her commented on her 'charisma, strategic wit, and terrifying mastery of swordplay.'"

"Alright, I think I understand where this is going. Some sheltered young gentlewoman managed to bluff her way into a position she was unprepared for because she could hold a sword and talked like she knew what she was doing. What happened next?" Baurus asked, leaning closer. He certainly wasn't sparing this woman any judgment. Gepard hadn't even gotten to her crime yet.

"Uhh, well, it looks like she was stationed in the island of Stirk for over a year. It wasn't like there was a war going on, so she was mainly just fighting pirates and smugglers. There's a commendation here for her role in bringing down a major checkpoint of the Camonna Tong. Earned her a promotion when she returned to shore, all the way to first mate. They were even grooming her to be Captain, saying that she would have her own ship by the time she turned twenty-five."

"I'm guessing she never made it to Captain," Baurus remarked idly.

"No, she did not. Despite Mona's supposed talents, she was only able to serve two years – two _peacetime_ years – before she tried to desert."

Baurus frowned, though he did not seem at all surprised.

"She deserted? Why?"

Gepard chose his words carefully to hide that he knew very little about this particular conflict.

"Well, as I'm sure you know, while Cyrodiil enjoyed a stretch of peacetime, the aftermath of the War of the Bend'r-Mahk prevailed in the West. That was when, you know-"

"You need not give me a history lesson, Captain Montrose. Growing up in Dragonstar East, I experienced it firsthand. There's no political stability. It's a mess," interrupted Baurus before Gepard could fumble with an explanation.  
He still couldn't remember if Dragonstar East or West had been the sector annexed by the invading Nords, but he didn't dare to ask. In any case, it really seemed to interest Baurus on a personal level. Though the entire thing already seemed to only interest him on a personal level, for whatever bizarre reason. It was not Gepard's place to question the Blade's motives, however, and he continued reading the rest of his notes.

"She was sent to Hammerfell with the rest of the fleet, as part of the Empire's efforts to resolve the strife between the Crowns and Forebears just after the captured cities had been returned to the Redguards. Now, our records are a bit inconclusive, and it's not altogether clear to us _why_ she deserted, but while Mona was stationed in Sentinel, she secretly paid the captain of a merchant ship to take her all the way to Rihad. Some of the crew recognized her, and they sent an anonymous tip to her commanding officer just before they embarked, wanting to keep Mona's money _and_ the reward for her capture. Imagine her surprise when the vessel was just pulling into the port of Rihad and the Imperial Legion was already there to arrest her – right out on the docks. In any case, it seems very unlikely that she had anything to do with the horrible death of the Emperor, and she only happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time due to an... ahem, an oversight, by my own admittance."

Baurus had not said anything for a while. He seemed to have lost himself in his own thoughts. Gepard gently intruded.

"Well, then, would you have me send out a party for her recapture?"

"No." Baurus said curtly. He stood up now, picking up from the desk the folder containing the documents that Gepard had painstakingly gathered.

"Why not? She is an escaped prisoner – a fugitive of the law. We've not made much progress with the investigation, and I've got good people sitting on their hands with nothing else to do."

Baurus pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, letting out an exhale of annoyance before speaking again.

"Look, Captain Montrose. Off the record? I don't like it either. I know, I know, she's a spoiled girl who's been given a free pass with just about everything else in her life, and she shouldn't be allowed to run away from her crimes too. But there are forces at play, forces greater than anything either of us can comprehend. And... the late Emperor trusted her with his dying breath. That's the only reason I need to do the same. As far as you are concerned, Mona has been granted an official pardon. Let's just leave it at that."

Gepard thought upon this for a while. He hadn't expected Baurus to reveal this much to him, but he appreciated it all the same. Suddenly, the odd priorities of the Blades did not seem so unfathomable. It made a lot of sense that Baurus would see the importance of investigating the one mysterious prisoner that Uriel Septim apparently took a liking to before his death. If only he were allowed to ask more of him... but that would be completely improper.

"So..." Gepard started, noticing that Baurus was already preparing to leave while he still struggled to contemplate everything in silence. But the Redguard stopped as soon as he heard his voice, and turned only his head back to look at Gepard. "What would you have me do instead?"

Baurus paused for a beat. He smiled.

"Know that I appreciate everything that you do. Oh, and you should carry on with your investigation, I think."


	5. Ilav Dralgoner

**1 Hearthfire 3E 433**

 **12:05 AM**

 **Kvatch, Great Chapel of Akatosh.**

It started with a tremor that nearly jolted Father Ilav out of his bed.

The elder priest mumbled sleepy nonsense words to himself and closed his eyes again, pulling the linen sheets over his head.

An earthquake. It would pass.

But the rumbling only intensified, louder, stronger. Growing _closer._ He dipped in and out of a nightmare, that he was on a miniature ship inside of a bottle, crashing against viridian waves because a shadow person was shaking the container. A particularly explosive tremor finally destroyed the bottle and he woke up to the sound of broken glass.

Ilav opened his eyes wide, tossing the covers off of him.

His old bones ached as he pulled himself out of bed, touching the cold stone floor with his bare feet.

The ground was still shaking. He felt the foundation of the chapel trembling. The dishes and silverware secured in the cabinet were rattling.

This was not an earthquake.

It was something else, something enormous coming into their city. A wretched grinding, metallic screeching that made his teeth chatter as it drew closer. Ilav had never heard sounds like this in his life but he knew it was not something from this world. Fear petrified him and for a moment he did not even dare to breathe.

And then he heard , thousands of feet outside, marching relentlessly into Kvatch. Dark voices... chanting in unison, in this terrible, guttural language of Oblivion.

The screams started not long after. Mortal screams. The grinding continued like a great screeching mechanical abomination. Something terrible was coming their way.

This was what they had been whispering about the past four days, since they'd heard of Uriel Septim's assassination. The Dragonfires had been extinguished, and the Daedra were free to invade their world.

Was this a test of their fate? Surely the Nine Divines would intervene. How could they allow this? Did their promise to protect Mundus end with the death of the last Septim?

Father Ilav clutched the amulet around his neck and prayed breathlessly.

"Akatosh, Divine father of us all, deliver us from the depths of this depravity..."

A clay bowl rolled off the table, shattering as it hit the ground.

Slowly, murmurs of activity from the other priests and lay-priests coalesced around him.

Ilav turned his head to see how they were handling this... invasion? Disaster? Whatever harrowing crisis the Divines were putting them through.

Brother Martin was already nearly finished dressing himself. While the others were still rubbing sleep out of their eyes and staring straight ahead in shock, trying to make sense of the chaos they heard outside, he was fully clothed, tying his robe and sitting on the bed only to pull his boots on. Ilav watched him yank his bootlaces taut with forceful speed, moving with unexpected efficiency.

"Brother Martin... where are you going?"

Not even looking up from his task, Martin spoke.

"There are people out there, Father."

His simple few words were so deep with conviction, as if this were the only explanation needed.

"But – if those are Daedra outside, the chapel is the safest place for us to be. They cannot enter this holy place. Surely the Nine will protect Kvatch from-"

Martin's eyes shot up, and Ilav saw in them a steel-blue intensity that he never would have expected from the mild-mannered priest he had known for five years.

"I will not stand idle while the people of Kvatch face the forces of Oblivion alone. You say we should cloister ourselves in the safety of the chapel while we pray for what? For divine intervention? Come with me or not; it matters little to me."

Ilav did not know how to respond to this. He was a Primate and the Head Priest of Kvatch; it was his duty to lead the others during times such as these. Even now he had nothing to say to the others looking to him expectantly, and slowly they followed Martin. Sun's Height marked the thirty-seventh year since his ordination, but nothing – nothing in his entire life's experience - could have prepared him for this. He'd spent his priesthood healing broken bones and blessing newborns. Not risking his life to fight off the foul denizens of Oblivion.

After pulling on a pair of leather sandals Father Ilav made his way up the stairs to the Great Hall, the sanctuary of the Chapel. Sister Oleta was seated in a pew, bouncing Cael on her knee, whispering comforting words to soothe the Bosmer child as best she could. The ragged orphan had been stark mute when he'd first appeared on the Chapel steps two years ago. He'd since started speaking like any seven-year-old would, laughing and playing and complaining about leek soup, but he never told them about anything that happened before he came to the Chapel.

And now, all Cael could do was whimper.

The strange noises outside continued to shake the earth beneath them. Ilav stared at the altar of the Nine draped in red cloth, the cold iron brazier within that had been extinguished with the passing of the last Emperor.

Though it was the dead of night, something very bright outside illumined the great painted glass windows of the Nine Divines, cascading multicolored rays along the floor. That was not a good sign at all.

Martin was not wasting any time. He heaved open the double-doors, revealing the great unknown outside.

Kvatch was burning. The entire city glowed orange and red, houses crumbling into scaffolding. Ilav could feel the sweltering heat already and he was still standing inside the chapel.

The city smelled of rotten eggs and burning flesh.

And then Ilav saw it, by the Nine, he saw the foulest creature he had seen in all sixty-five years of life.

The screeching, grinding thing was sprawled along the center of the city plaza, just outside the Chapel. Ilav blinked to make certain it was no hallucination – this was truly happening, oh, gods, where were the gods?!

It was an insect-like, flaming beast, sixty feet tall – crushing stone houses in its path just by crawling over them – and spreading longer than his eyes could see, its segmented tubular body leading well out the city gates. It looked like a terrible, infinite-legged iron centipede forged in fiery brimstone. Its "head" was white-hot with four hook-shaped tendrils affixed, sharpened to a deadly point.

This metal centipede was enormous – there was no way they could defeat it, not before it destroyed them all! Everything it touched would either crumble or burn. What did Brother Martin hope to accomplish? Prolong their suffering? They all would die eventually! Why did he not understand? They all were going to die!

Scamps and clannfear – hundreds of them! - were climbing up over the city walls, leaping into Kvatch at an alarming rate.

"Father Ilav?"

Ilav pried his eyes from the carnage and turned around just as Martin disappeared outside, closing the door behind him. It was Oleta, holding the weeping Bosmer child out to him.

"Yes, Sister?" It felt like he was not truly speaking at all, but listening to someone else speak his words with his voice.

"I'm going to help Brother Martin bring the survivors to the Chapel. Please, if you are staying, could you watch Cael?"

Wordlessly Ilav accepted the boy from the Redguard priestess. The old priest's mind was too numb to function, but his body seemed to be working independent of it, and before he knew it he was seated in a pew, bouncing the boy idly on his knee. He murmured useless assuagements that he himself did not believe, but how could he tell an innocent child that their doom was imminent?

"I don't want to lose my family again," Cael mewled.

"We're safe in here, Cael. As long as we stay inside the Chapel..."

"But... Brother Martin and Sister Oleta, they..."

Now, the child's weeping was beginning to irritate Ilav. He stroked the boy's hair absentmindedly.

"Don't worry about Martin and Oleta. They're... they'll be back soon. I promise. But they'll be coming back with a lot of guests. Do you think you can do me a favor?"

"What?" Cael sniffled. At least he'd ceased his incessant crying for the moment.

"Go to the undercroft and bring up as many candles and bedrolls as you can find. We're going to have a lot of guests soon."

Cael hopped down and scrambled away. Perhaps giving the boy a task had been enough to calm him for the moment.

After Cael disappeared down the stairs, Ilav crossed his arms, staring straight ahead at the image of Akatosh painted in the glass in front of him, its magnificent colors still glowing brilliantly from the fires raging outside.

He whispered prayer after prayer until his mouth was dry. Half-dragon, half-man, the depiction of Akatosh only stared back at Ilav in silent judgment.

"What would you have me do?!" he demanded, clenching his hands into fists. "Have I not devoted my entire life to your order? Have I not helped so many of the poor, the unfortunate, the infirm in your name? Akatosh, Divine father of us all, do you see fire raining over Kvatch? Do you hear the screams of us who have loved you? Do you hear our prayers?!"

Nothing. The shrieks and chaos continued outside, but the Divines gave him no answer.

Ilav had never felt more alone. He gripped the pendant around his neck but he no longer felt Akatosh's power within it. Just a cold piece of bronze carved in the shape of a winged hourglass. That was all it was. A trinket made of metal.

"Why..." he started, standing on unsteady legs. "Why won't you answer me? Why don't you _HEAR US?!"_

His shout reverberated across the walls until it faded, unanswered. The painting of Akatosh did not move.

Ilav knew the answer, though.

The gods were dead.

They had forsaken them.

The daedra would win.

There was nothing for Ilav to do but sit here and await his death with dignity. He wouldn't fight it. How did any mortal have a chance against that horrible iron centipede outside?

Nearly an hour had passed before Martin and Oleta returned, bringing the smell of brimstone with them. Their robes were black with soot. Ilav felt detached from it all, as if he were witnessing a stage play in front of him. Martin carried in his arms a rather wealthy-looking unconscious woman in a lacy white nightcap and dressing gown, stained with blood from a wound in her abdomen. Trailing behind them were four less impressively dressed citizens and... two other priests Ilav recognized. That was odd. He didn't even remember seeing them leave the chapel, but perhaps he had missed them.

Martin laid the woman down on a bedroll gently as Oleta secured the door. They began speaking very quickly and Martin was casting healing spells. Ilav was only vaguely aware of what was going on.

"Where is Cael?"

That was Oleta again, looking stern as ever. Dammit, he'd lost track of where the boy went.

"He's..." Ilav's eyes scanned the sanctuary. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the child crouched at the altar of Kynareth. "Over there, lighting candles."

While Oleta rushed to embrace Cael, Brother Martin was heading down to the living quarters. Curiously, Ilav wandered after him. Somehow, the wounded, desperate people in the sanctuary had only added to the misery.

"You – praise the gods, you've all made it safe! Truth be told, I did not expect you to return alive," Ilav said, following after him down the steps and into to the kitchen.

Martin's brown hair hung heavy with sweat. In fact, _Martin_ was entirely drenched in sweat. And no wonder; it was an inferno out there. He dipped a towel in a basin and wiped his face with it, smiling grimly at Ilav.

"Don't celebrate just yet, Father. I'm only here for a short while; I know there are more survivors, hiding in cellars, in basements. I see you've prepared some beds – that's good. We'll need them."

"Actually – that was the child that did it."

Martin's eyebrows raised.

"Cael did that all by himself? What have you been doing all this time, then?"

Other than shouting at a painted image of Akatosh? Not much at all. Actually, Ilav realized he hadn't really done anything to prepare. He could have brought food and water up, moved the pews to make room for more beds, boiled some water, _anything_. He'd prayed to Akatosh for their salvation, but such a sentiment was a fruitless endeavor.

"Why even bother?" Ilav said sharply. "There's no point – you've seen what it's like outside. That horrible, black... _thing._ If the gods even exist anymore, truly they have forsaken us."

Martin clutched the rag tighter in his hands, wringing out the excess water. Suddenly the priest looked older, worn-out in the flickering candlelight, though Ilav knew him to only be in his young thirties.

"The Divines aren't going to give us a miracle just because we asked for one. They never have. If you only wish to passively anticipate your death, I cannot stop you. But Kvatch needs us right now, and we, not the _gods,_ may be their last hope. To do nothing while innocent people are slaughtered, that's – it's sacrilege, a mockery of everything we stand for."

Ilav blinked. Martin's bold words cut into him, and made him feel strange.

The younger priest couldn't even make eye contact now, because he was busy pulling three bottles off the wine rack with irate brusqueness. Martin held one under his arm as he carried the other two in his hands.

The _good_ wine? For the people upstairs? The one luxury that they could afford themselves as priests, and –

Oh, that was right. They were all going to die soon, anyways. What did it matter?

Still, Ilav found it irksome that Martin didn't ask first, or even give a proper explanation for this raid on their libations.

"Do we have no water?" Ilav asked.

Martin glanced wearily at Ilav as he already started up the stairs, shrugging as best he could with one wine bottle under his arm.

"We've the shaving water here but that's all. Maybe you'd be inclined to draw a bucket from the well?" he suggested, his tone bordering on petulance.

* * *

 **2:00 AM**

Water from the well. Yes, of course he could draw water from the well. Father Ilav was never so painfully aware of his own ineptitude as a leader until tonight, but Martin's words struck him in an odd way. He owed it to the others to at least make an effort to help. Outside, Ilav did not even need a torch. The wicked blaze provided plenty of light. Hugging the bucket close to his chest, he crept carefully behind the chapel, holding his breath until he was no longer within the ruinous threshold of the siege crawler. Then he took a deep choking inhale of ash and sulfur.

Perspiration beaded on his forehead as he lowered the bucket down the well. His hands were slippery with sweat and clumsy with nerves, and he nearly let go of the handle as he noticed a young lady running across the main plaza, someone he recognized – an apprentice from the Mages Guild he knew by the name of Inge Thistle-Foot. Her wheat-colored hair whipped all about as she ran. Nice girl, came in every Loredas for a blessing, but mostly just to stammer a bashful word or two at an oblivious or uninterested Brother Martin. A dremora wielding a claymore as large as Ilav was pursuing her at a distance of about five feet and closing in fast. Inge turned on her heel and planted both feet firmly on the ground, shooting frostbolts from her hands. The dremora staggered, his movement slowed from the cold.

" _I'LL HAVE YOUR HEART!"_ he bellowed after her, though his sluggish pace could not match his zeal.

Ilav wanted to help, but he did not want to risk capturing the attention of the dremora, or his tremendous claymore.

Gods, now Inge was running in his direction. He held an arm up.

"To the chapel! To the chapel! You'll be safe there!" he called after her, but above the endless mechanical shrieks of the siege crawler and the chaos and screams, it did not seem like she heard him.

It did not matter much, because as she hopped a stone fence, hunched over to catch a wheezing breath or two while clutching her side, a scaly creature with a fanning crest atop its head leaped from branches of a smoldering tree. It latched onto her robe with spindly claws. Though Inge was built like a sturdy Skyrim farmer, the clannfear runt barreling into her caught her entirely by surprise. The Nord woman was pinned right up against the wall by the clannfear, seemingly immobilized.

The appearance of the daedra sent a shock through Father Ilav as well, and he lost his grip on the handle. The rope zipped through the pulley and dropped the bucket into the water below. He raised his trembling hands and thought of a spell he might cast to help the girl – paralysis? Yes, that would do it – but he stopped mid-cast and ducked behind the well when he saw that the fearsome dremora had caught up.

Methodically, the daedra thrust the claymore _through_ the back of the clannfear and straight into the girl's chest. Both of them, skewered on the same sword. It all happened so fast. She didn't even have a chance to scream. There was no hesitation from the dremora, nothing that indicated he felt any remorse at killing one of his own to get to the girl. The clannfear was bleeding green all over the place. The dremora secured his black jagged boot on the corpse of the lesser daedra to wrench the sword out, its cruel serrated edges now dripping with two different colors of blood.

Ilav retched. He whirled around and crouched with his back against the well, clutching his amulet and praying, screaming prayers to Akatosh in his head nearly drowned out by the panic ringing in his ears.

" _I CAN SMELL YOUR FEAR, MORTAL."_

All of the hairs on his arms stood up straight and his blood turned to ice.

The dremora's boots kicked ash and rubble into the air as he marched around the perimeter of the yard like a sergeant, searching.

Ilav crept – slowly – obscured by the flickering shadow of the belfry against the illuminating flames, hoping to crawl around the back of the chapel. He was swimming in sweat, choking on each suppressed breath.

A pair of jagged boots blocked his path and the gate he'd hoped to reach. Even the toes of his boots had spikes on them.

Ilav jolted to his feet and took several steps backwards, staring into the beady red eyes of Oblivion. The dremora sneered and raised his claymore.

" _THERE YOU ARE, WEAKLING!"_

Ilav bounced up and ran. Past the dead girl he couldn't bring himself to look at. He ran, lungs burning with each brimstone-filled pant. The priest stumbled clumsily over the fence, landing less than gracefully on his face. His nose was broken, he could feel warm blood oozing out but he picked himself up and ran as quickly as his aging legs would take him.

The unyielding stomp-stomp-stomp behind him was close, so close, surely the dremora was already in slashing range with a weapon that large why didn't he just end it oh Akatosh why was this happening to him –

At the front entrance to the Chapel, Brother Martin was still holding the door wide open, as if anticipating Ilav's return. However, the priest's eyes widened and his hands readied for a spell when he saw what was chasing after Ilav.

"Get inside! Quickly!"

Ilav did not need Martin to tell him twice.

He ran, the others were screaming at the sight of the monster but he ran. His sandal strap was broken and his foot slipped on somebody's bedroll. He fell right into a pew – he heard his leg crack but he did not feel the pain until several seconds later. Ilav couldn't move and his body was contorted into a pretzel. Was this the end? Akatosh be damned, this was not how he wanted to die!

" _I WILL FEAST ON-"_

Something heavy and metallic clattered to the floor behind him. The pain seized his brain and he could only see tiny specks of light against black. His ears were ringing and then the world disappeared-

* * *

 **5:20 AM**

"Father Ilav? You're awake. Can you hear me?"

That was Oleta's watery voice.

Ilav nodded.

A cool hand graced over his forehead and he heard light footsteps as she walked away.

Conversation hummed around him. It sounded like a damn town hall meeting. How many hours had he lost? Enough for them to find more _guests_ to occupy the sanctuary. Ilav turned over to one side but the noise prevailed.

"I'd always thought... with Kvatch being on a mountain and all, we'd be safe from invasion..."

"Papa, I'm _hungry."_

"By the gods! I left my ring at home-"

* * *

 **10:45 AM**

Time passed, and Ilav was walking again. What had just happened to him didn't feel real – it must have been a nightmare, and yet it wasn't, because the others were telling him what had happened. It was difficult _not_ to hear; everyone was talking about it. Apparently, when the dremora had chased him into the chapel, it vanished – literally – leaving only its armor behind as soon as it passed through the doorway. The cuirass, gauntlets, greaves, and boots were still messily strewn about the sanctuary – no one had bothered to move them or put them away. In fact, people seemed to be taking great care to walk around the profane items and avoid them as best as possible. Fortunately, someone had taken away the claymore with the serrated edges – a wise move, with there being children inside of the sanctuary. Including Cael, there were now five young ones underfoot. All of them were sitting in a circle while Brother Tanner made futile attempts to inspire them all to play a guessing game, but even very young children were observant enough to recognize that the adults were frightened of what was outside too. Their tears had long dried and they could only stare at each other, somber-faced, half-heartedly playing along and asking Brother Tanner about shapes, colors, sizes...

In the vestibule downstairs Brother Martin sat hunched over on a stool. The heavy sleeves of his robe were rolled up to the elbows and he had one hand on his forehead, the other hand holding the neck of an uncorked bottle of Surilie vintage. He looked altogether an exhausted mess, tousled hair clinging to his head in strands heavy with sweat. Dark stubble formed around his gaunt face. Ilav instinctively reached to feel the scraggly growth of hair around his own chin.

"I... left the water bucket outside," he confessed.

Martin stared with what looked like immense disappointment, as if Ilav had just said he left a bucket of gold outside.

"Inge Thistle-Foot too, apparently." His voice was a deep, accusatory growl. As if he _knew._

"There was nothing I could do! It happened so fast, I..." he stammered, only to be waved off by Martin, who clearly did not want to hear it. He shook his head, bringing the bottle to his cracked lips.

Ilav stood there, unsure what to say. It felt like he was being blamed for the girl's death, and that didn't feel right.

"Some of our food has been stolen," Martin said, thankfully changing the subject. "Oleta and the others insisted I stay here to watch the larder."

"The survivors stole from us? Are they still here in the chapel?"

"They'd be long gone by now. Unless they managed to eat two wheels of cheese and three loaves of bread with no one noticing. I do hope for their safety. They would have been safer if they'd just stayed here, but hungry thieves aren't exactly known for rational thought."

This frustrated Ilav to no end. This was why they couldn't simply take everyone into the chapel. There were five of them to chaperone how many people? Forty? Fifty? All of these decisions had been made without consulting Ilav, which was another troubling thing. Did no one take him seriously anymore? Was he just getting in their way?

Speaking of food, Ilav himself had been feeling rather peckish.

"Then... what do we still have left?"

"A wheel of cheese, two potatoes, a pound of blackberries, a loaf of stale bread, and..." he chuckled bitterly. "The shepherd's pie S'vaasa left us yesterday."

"Didn't we eat half of that for supper last night?"

Martin nodded.

"Half a shepherd's pie," he confirmed. Martin took a final swig of the bottle and replaced the cork, holding it out for Ilav to take. The wine inside swished half-full.

"Ah. I've an idea. Would you mind covering my shift, Father Ilav? All you have to do is sit here and do absolutely nothing. That's your area of expertise, is it not?"

Ilav was presently drinking from the bottle, head tilted back, but Martin's insolence nearly caused him to choke. He forced down the wine and stared in disbelief at the priest that was already walking away without waiting for his answer.

Why, Ilav thought, was he being derided as useless, but no one else was criticizing the Nine Divines for doing _absolutely nothing?_ Akatosh, Kynareth, Mara, Julianos, Stendarr, Talos, Dibella, Arkay, Zenithar... every last one had forsaken them! They were the ones to blame for this madness!

Martin clapped several times, quieting the din of conversation in the sanctuary. He spoke, his voice raspy, and the people listened with weary faces. Some were huddled in front of the shrines to the Divines, wrapped in blankets. Others sat on the pews, as if in congregation. But they all watched Brother Martin with the last shred of hope they still had, looking to him now with bleary eyes for the miracle that the Divines would not bring. Ilav saw Martin's hands clasped behind his back, so that no one would see that he too was trembling.

"Everyone. I know that you are tired, and the uncertainty of what tomorrow will bring hangs over us heavier than the red sky outside. But that's why I need all of you to trust me. I'm about to... about to attempt to save what is left of Kvatch. For me to do this, the rest of you must go down to the undercroft. The other priests will escort you. Please, I ask that you do as they say. I... my only wish is for all of you to be safe. May Akatosh guide and protect us."

Even Martin, pious Brother Martin, said that last line with noticeably less conviction than the rest of his speech.

The survivors erupted into noise even before Martin was done talking. They all wanted answers, but no one was inclined to give them any. Oleta and Tanner were already leading groups to the undercroft, staring after Martin as if they too did not know his plans. Ilav grabbed the priest by his robes just as he saw him heading for the ladder that led to the belfry.

"Brother Martin, what in _Oblivion_ are you planning?"

Martin wrestled himself free from Ilav's grip, staring through him.

"You gave me the idea when you ran the dremora into the chapel, Father Ilav. That's one thing I can thank you for."

It only took a moment for it to dawn on Ilav just what the priest was planning.

"You don't mean – you're going to bring that... that... _thing_ in here?"

Martin's grimace turned into a half-smirk. He started for the ladder.

Ilav was horrified – more than that, he was outraged! This was the worst idea he had ever heard of! How did he even know this would work?

"I'll – I'll have nothing to do with this. Brother Martin, you let go of that ladder right now – that's an order! I'm warning you – I – I'll have you defrocked!"

"Fine, I'll remind you when all of this is over," Martin called down as he continued his ascent.

Ilav felt powerless – he never should have let Martin usurp his authority like this! No one else was trying to stop him – in fact, Oleta was putting a hand on Ilav's shoulder and telling him to calm down as if he were the one being audacious!

"Calm down?" Ilav spat, shoving her away. "How can I calm down when Martin is going to kill us all with this suicidal act?"

People were whispering. Nervous giggles echoed across the halls. Someone was crying.

Ilav gripped his amulet of Akatosh and tugged sharply, tearing the cord around his neck.

"Our gods are as dead as this piece of bronze," he muttered, letting the winged hourglass slip from his fingers.

Someone was saying something to him but Ilav ignored them. He started marching – still holding the bottle of wine – straight out the door. The sky above was cracked and red. Kvatch was still burning, and the length of the siege crawler's body still snaked out the city gates, blocking anyone's escape from the city. Its _head_ was the size of the belfry! How could Martin expect to defeat that thing?!

Ilav stumbled over his broken sandal. He kicked it off his foot. The path felt like hot coals underfoot but Ilav was past the point of caring.

The chapel bells began to peal, with great volume rising above even the mechanical noise of the siege crawler.

The centipede-like thing's iron legs made groaning, creaking sounds as it turned itself towards the chapel. When it moved, the ground rumbled with it.

Another drink of wine to numb his brain some more, and Ilav ran until he reached the city limits. He could still feel the damned bells reverberating through his entire body.

Ilav squinted at the bell tower where Martin was. He couldn't see him at this distance, but the chiming ceased and echoed into nothing when the siege crawler began to shoot troll-sized fireballs in the direction of the belfry.

Apparently this was not enough, for the massive centipede reared itself on two legs, raising part of its body up taller than the chapel's steeples. It wailed a garbled, metallic sound and dove head-first into the Great Chapel of Akatosh!

The belfry broke clean off and was falling – bell chamber, steeple, and all, crashing to the ground, the bells sounding one last muffled _clang_. But the most striking part was that the beast did not remove its head for a second assault. It simply – disappeared.

Its entire body vanished into nothing, leaving only indentations in the dirt where its many legs had clawed into and a big ugly hole in the roof of the chapel.

For a moment there was silence save for the crackling flames all around.

Then, somewhere behind him, Ilav heard wild cheering, whooping. Sounds of _joy._ He craned his neck directly upwards and saw what was left of the city watch leaning over the battlements to witness the great sight. They had put aside their bows to clap and dance with each other.

The siege crawler was dead!

Martin. This was all because of Brother Martin. Had he still been in the belfry when it fell? Ilav had no time to pick through the rubble and look for him – the way out of Kvatch was still open!

Ilav ran.


	6. Sinderion

**1 Hearthfire, 3E 433**

 **5:15 PM**

 **West Weald Inn, Skingrad.**

It had taken Sinderion all morning to grind the imp bones into a powder, and several more hours to boil it into a rather noxious-smelling gelatin. The resulting coagulation was intended as a stabilizer for the substance bubbling in the retort to his immediate right; an emulsion of one part ectoplasm with two parts distilled water. To his left was a humming nirnroot, one he had carefully transplanted to a pot two months prior, in a pre-treated soil mixture containing ash salts from Vvardenfell. This was Sinderion's closest attempt at recreating the soil conditions of the period following the Sun's Death, though unfortunately his notes thus far did not indicate any observable deviations when compared to his control sample.

The nirnroot in ash-soil had been his little pet project for the last two months, another research experiment dreamed up during his time (wasted) at the Arcane University. Hence why Sinderion appreciated his basement laboratory so much; it allowed him the freedom to practice, well, everything the finger-twiddlers of the Alchemical Symposium never would have allocated the space nor funds for. But in this particular case, he could now acquiesce with their opinion. For two months, it had given him _nothing._ Well, nothing aside from a lot of shimmery, arcane noise.

Sinderion craved results, and he was counting on the efficacy of this concoction to (essentially, in lay terms) 'fertilize' the nirnroot, amplifying its latent magical effects and facilitate growth. Or so he hoped. Certainly, it was a wild theory, one based mainly in conjecture, but any respectable alchemist had to be willing to undertake some risks. At the very worst it might kill the root. Oh, what an immense tragedy that would be.

Perhaps it may have been prudent of him to continue the ash salt experiment for a longer period of time before attempting an outrageously novel idea such as this, but a serious drawback of having his laboratory double as a living space meant that whenever he happened to be studying live nirnroot samples, the plant's constant oscillating chime drove Sinderion near batty when he was forced to listen to it day and night. Now, in the throes of a particularly restless week compounded by the relentless singing of the two nirnroots in his lab, Sinderion had come to the conclusion that, despite their rarity, killing the roots was _not_ in fact the worst possible outcome of this little experiment.

The Altmer alchemist's heart quickened as he poured the ectoplasm emulsion into the crucible containing the gelatin. He'd prepared concoctions of this nature before, and it was hardly a thing to be nervous about, but the moment of truth was drawing ever so near.

The heated ectoplasm mixture melted the gelatin, as expected, but as he stirred it vigorously with a glass rod, the translucent viridian substance produced quite the unexpected reaction. Great gloopy green bubbles formed and then burst, and wispy vapors with the most putrid scent reminiscent of spoiled potatoes wafted out from it. This reaction looked altogether dangerous, and Sinderion reached for the void salts on the shelf to nullify the mixture before it got out of hand. Blinking several times to clear the tears from his eyes, he dropped just a pinch of salts into the crucible, but lo and behold, it turned a volatile solution into a positively _volcanic_ one. It turned the liquid opaque and it sputtered and glowed with heat, illuminating the room with an odd shimmery green, like light shining through a bottle of absinthe. The steam turned to smoke with an electric crackle. The crucible itself was shaking violently and Sinderion knew not what to do. Noxious gasses filled the room at an alarming rate and all he could do was wrap his hands in a wool cloth to lift the fulminating bowl and toss it into an empty waste barrel.

The wooden barrel caught fire – yes, the entire thing erupted into toxic bright green flames, flickering up towards the ceiling, consuming the container at a frenzied rate faster than any natural fire he had ever seen. Sinderion grew lightheaded from the smoke and he collapsed to his bed, forced to use magical means to sustain his breathing. He could not even keep his eyes open for very long due to the irritating smoke stinging tears into his eyes.

As he waited, helplessly trapped in his laboratory which he had unintentionally transformed into a lethal dungeon, all Sinderion could think about were the many ways Erina might kill him for this. Surely she would have his head. Yes, he, master alchemist Sinderion, in the prime of his life, was going to die tonight by the hands of an angry Imperial landlady. Perhaps the saddest part about that thought was that he could not think of whom to bequeath the sum of his worldly possessions to, his alchemy apparatus worth a small fortune... the only person he even spoke to regularly these days was that quiet Dunmer girl he'd agreed to apprentice, who came thrice a week. He wondered what Avrusa might do with his lab if he was gone. Provided Erina did not destroy it in a fit of rage, of course.

Eventually the blaze died down when it had no more wood to burn and it was smothered by the stone floor beneath. There was nothing left but a sooty, glittering puddle on the ground and the metal rings from around the barrel.

The alchemist was still coughing as he brought himself to his feet again, waving his hand back and forth in front of his face. Eyes still misty, he peered down at the steaming pile of residue on the floor.

What in Oblivion had just happened? This was not how alchemy was meant to be! Never had he ever produced such a reaction (though if the conditions could be recreated under controlled circumstances he understood its viability as a chemical weapon – not that he'd ever intend to sell a dangerous secret to a military that would misuse it, mind) in all of his years, and there did not appear to be any explanation as to why this had happened. He'd even combined these ingredients before for a fortify magicka potion – clearly, some variable was interfering with-

Some... abnormal... variable... interfering...

Out the corner of his eye, Sinderion glanced at the potted nirnroot sitting noisily on his desk, happily singing away. It took a lot of willpower not to tear the plant out of the soil and grind it to a pulp in his mortar and pestle right now.

That did it. Sinderion needed a moment of respite – a moment away from his laboratory before he went into an over-the-moons insane plant-murdering rampage.

And, he supposed, it would be nice to mingle with the others. He didn't get to do that often. In truth, Skingrad hosted few who shared Sinderion's enthusiasm for alchemy (aside from that vile Hlaalu woman down the street whom he avoided like the Blight), and it was difficult for him to even _find_ like-minded friends to converse with. He did, of course, appreciate the solitude his basement laboratory provided him, but every so often he felt there was something substantial missing from his life.

At the top of the stairs, Sinderion hesitated just an instant before opening the door, as if he expected Erina to be standing there with an angry mob just waiting to ambush him.

She wasn't, of course, but Sinderion still feared for the future of his basement laboratory.

Truly, he wondered if the smell carried up here. So far, it did not seem the case. He shut the door carefully and gave the innkeeper an amicable wave. Casual. As if he hadn't just created an alchemical abomination in her basement. She smiled at him. Good. She did not suspect a thing. However, Erina had no time for small talk, for she was seated at a table, busy engaging in conversation with a woman Sinderion recognized.

It was Tamika, famous for her West Weald Wine. He could not help but be fascinated by the Redguard vintner, who despite being out of her farming trousers and into her nice linen dress, still retained evidence of the day's labor in the grape fields with loosely tied wet hair and dirt under her fingernails. Though Sinderion was strictly a scholar, he understood the practical applications of alchemy's distant offshoots – perfumists, vintners, brewers, even dyers to name a few, all employed some specialized methodology grounded in the principles of alchemy. In some way, Sinderion considered people like Tamika to be far more noble than he; putting this science, this art to use in ways that immediately benefited society. What was he doing with his knowledge and resources? Blowing things up in the basement of the West Weald Inn, of course.

There were few other patrons in the tavern, but the Altmer found a seat by himself in a far corner from where he could observe. Else God-Hater, confrontational as always, was in the midst of a heated debate with Alval Uvani, a Dunmer with an equally antagonistic personality. Apparently they had to go all the way back to the Dragon Break to find something to argue about. That sort of unpleasantness was the type of interaction Sinderion went out of his way to avoid, but to each their own.

Ignoring all other patrons, the alchemist waited patiently for Erina and Tamika to finish scribbling out their business. He intended on approaching the seasoned vintner, and imagined it would result in a stimulating conversation. Though she was more of an... artisan than a scholar, and likely did not have the same education and knowledge as he, Sinderion believed that she had a wealth of experience to share, and perhaps Tamika may be interested in hearing some of his own thoughts about wine-making. He glimpsed at her in the orange candlelight, moving her hands passionately as she spoke, laughing at all the appropriate times. Her skin was warm and leathery and beginning to show the signs of middle age, but there was a certain alluring strength in the way she carried herself, a frightening energy in her expressive hands atypical of a human woman nearing sixty with grays already streaking her dark wiry hair. When she finally scraped her chair back and stood to shake hands with Erina, Sinderion started walking towards her. She turned from Erina and was face-to-face with the Altmer alchemist.

"Ah, Tamika, is it?"

"Yes?"

The Redguard woman gave him her best professional smile.

In Sinderion's excitement he'd wholly forgotten what on Nirn he'd planned on saying to Tamika in the first place! She was a busy lady; how did he think to be interesting enough for someone as successful and ambitious as she to speak with him? Though he was a master alchemist in his own right, he was an unknown in her circles! He attempted to salvage the situation as best he could without looking like an utter ninny.

"Lovely day it's been today, hasn't it?"

He fidgeted a little with his rope sash.

Tamika's smile slowly faded into something more hardened, accentuating the wrinkles in her forehead. Her expression changed so quickly it was as if the smile were only a mask to hide her true face.

"Lovely? Didn't you hear the courier? The Daedra sacked Kvatch last night. We could be next. But... it's raining, and the grapes have been needing that for a long time. Yeah. At least it's raining. That's a lovely thing, I suppose."

It was raining? How curious. Considering he lived in a cellar, Sinderion wasn't always aware of the weather changes in-

Hold on. _What_ was that about Kvatch?

"What happened in Kvatch?" Sinderion asked, unsure why his voice had become a whisper. It didn't seem real – Kvatch was so close to Skingrad. When the Emperor had been assassinated in the Imperial City, it all felt so distant, so disconnected from their daily lives that he could feel safe enough. But Kvatch... _sacked?_

Tamika shook her head slowly. She looked clearly distraught.

"Ask someone else. I... I'm sorry. I can't talk about that right now," she said, turning to leave. There were very real tears forming in her eyes. Sinderion felt positively dreadful.

While he was still fussing over an apology, Tamika had already exited the building.

Well, that was that, then.

He stood there a few moments longer, when someone entered his field of vision with her hands at her sides. Erina. He recognized the pattern on her skirt. There was a dirty towel hanging out of her apron and Sinderion focused on that instead of making eye contact.

"Sinderion?"

"Ah... uh, yes, Erina?"

He would have to try to clean up the basement as best he could later tonight. For now, he dreaded returning to that mess.

"You look troubled. I saw you talking to Tamika..."

"Talking, yes, I suppose you could call that talking. Making an offensive fool of myself, morelike," Sinderion answered bitterly, looking up at the publican now.

"I'm sure you were fine. Her grandson lives in Kvatch. She's been very worried about him, is all."

Oh, well, that just made Sinderion feel even more dreadful about the entire thing. No wonder Tamika had been so distraught.

Glumly, he made his way up to the second level of the inn. After that embarrassing display, he wanted nothing more than to disappear for a while. But he didn't want to disappear in his basement this time, because his basement smelled like something rancid.

Sinderion pushed open the two double-doors leading out to the balcony. Rain was indeed coming down in torrents, and everything looked gray, though Skingrad was a city of grays in any weather. Even on sunny days, the protruding stone buttresses and ledges of the high-rise terraced buildings cast long shadows along the narrow streets. Black twisting spires and rows of sharp-slanted roofs pierced the skyline. The only hint of vibrant color were the violet morning glories creeping around columns and hanging signs and moss that grew between the cobblestones, thriving in Skingrad's shady ambiance.

Directly across from the West Weald balcony Sinderion saw the faded oilcloth banners of the Mages Guild and the Fighters Guild fluttering in the wind. This thoroughfare may have been bustling with activity any other evening, but now it was absolutely barren, rain pounding relentlessly against the cobblestone streets, water pooling in great big puddles.

A figure in a black hooded cloak strode through, their boots splashing water all over the place. Their arms were crossed close to their chest and they looked to be in quite a hurry. Sinderion noticed a sword sheathed at their side. The mysterious person passed right under the balcony to enter the West Weald Inn, too quickly for Sinderion to catch a glimpse of their face.

Feeling a bit chilly from the weather outside, Sinderion had enough gazing out the balcony and went back indoors to sit himself on a bench. On an end-table nearby there was a well-worn copy of _The Seed_ by Marobar Sul. Apparently its last reader had neglected to put it back in its place. It belonged to the Inn, along with several other titles. Occasionally, a guest would leave a book in their room, or Erina would buy from merchants heavily discounted books that had been damaged in shipment or select titles that hadn't sold in months. She kept them on a shelf in the reception area for her guests to peruse in their boredom, and most stayed with the Inn; few of them were worth reading, and even fewer worth stealing. Perhaps it was worth mentioning that reading _The Seed_ was preferable to confronting his little problem in the basement. Oh, what a mess he'd made down there.

Sinderion had only gotten through the first paragraph of the tale (which was already suspect, for these Dwemer did not even live underground and their community was described as "peaceful") when he heard footsteps bounding up the stairs, bringing the smell of fresh rain with them.

He recognized the black cloak of the mysterious person that had entered the inn about ten minutes ago, though with their hood down they no longer seemed particularly mysterious. She was a Redguard, tall, lightly armored, with the confident stride and athletic physique of a mercenary. In all likelihood that was what she was, seeing as she did not sport any tabard or recognizable uniform. She drew her soaking cloak tightly around herself, and was still shivering from being in the miserable rain outside for so long.

The woman breathed a sigh of displeasure as soon as she noticed Sinderion.

" _Dammit._ Are you waiting for a room, too?" she asked, taking one step closer to him. A nearby oil lamp caught her face, and he could behold that she was much darker and much younger than Tamika. He had a rough time discerning the ages of humans, for their lives were so much shorter than that of Mer, but he would have guessed the woman to be in her twenties.

Sinderion closed the book, leaving his thumb inside to mark his place.

"Well, no, I-"

The woman gripped the ends of his bench with her two hands and leaned forward, charcoal-dark eyes boring into Sinderion with the ferocity of a mountain lion.

"Look. I'll pay you thirty septims for your place in line – that's worth three nights here. I suggest you take my offer if you know what's good for you."

"Erm... I'm not in any sort of line, miss. Actually... I live here," Sinderion replied, feeling just a little shaken by the woman's intimidating presence.

The Redguard took a step back, her face blanking, as if she'd gone into a trance. One, two, three seconds passed before she figured out how to speak again.

"Oh." the woman muttered an apology and took a few steps back before sinking into the bench across from Sinderion. She rested her elbows on her thighs and held her face in her hands. "If today is Turdas that means I've been on the road for three days straight. I've been seeing flying mudcrabs out of the corner of my eye. It's... I'm just really tired. I'm sorry if I scared you. Really."

"It's Fredas evening, actually. So... that makes four days? Goodness, you really could use some rest. Ah, but it's no bother at all. My name is Sinderion."

"Mona."

They had little else to say to each other at that moment, and Sinderion briefly went back to his book, though he found it difficult to focus on the words with Mona sitting right there in front of him.

"Are you partial to the stories of Marobar Sul?" she asked after a while, gesturing toward his book with one hand while her face still rested in the other.

"Goodness, no," Sinderion said quickly, flustered even at the thought of anyone thinking that he actually enjoyed the Ancient Tales of the Dwemer. His colleagues often made sport of decrying his work. "I only found it lying here. I don't normally read books like this, I assure you."

Mona nodded, still looking at the book's cover.

"I've read that one. It's copied nearly word-for-word from an Argonian tale. He uhh, Sul, I mean, he just changed the Dunmer slave masters into Dwemer, made the names less pronounceable, and called it a day. He does that a lot," she said, scratching her head. Her hair was short and wiry and it looked like it'd be neat to touch.

Sinderion lowered the book. He hadn't expected a comment like that from her, but that was because he had already assumed she was a common sword-for-hire.

"Ah, so you're quite well-read, then? I was not aware you were so cultured."

The Altmer did briefly wonder if his flattery sounded insincere. It was difficult to compliment a stranger without sounding obsequious, but it was so rare to find someone at the West Weald Inn speaking of matters aside from weather and gossip and the price of brandy that his interest happened to be genuine.

Mona shrugged.

"Not really," she replied, scratching her head again. She seemed to do that a lot when she spoke. "I just read the editor's notes."

"Well, you read things. That makes you more well-read than most," Sinderion offered.

Mona just waved him off. "Sure." Her voice sounded a bit hoarse.

Again, there was a break. Things were so quiet that he could hear the rain outside.

"So," Sinderion said, not quite ready to abandon this attempt at conversation. "You say you've been traveling? What brings you to Skingrad?"

Mona began to lean back, staring up at the ceiling. She spread her legs out in front of her leisurely. They were so long they nearly reached Sinderion's seat.

"Just passing through. Picking up a relative in Kvatch. There's a... an urgent family matter back home that he needs to attend to."

"Kvatch?" Sinderion exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his seat. "Haven't you heard about what's happening there?"

That sparked something. Mona shifted from her lazy posture quickly, bringing her legs close together and leaning forward as though she were about to stand up. Her face was grim.

"What's happening in Kvatch?" she asked. There was danger in her voice, panic in her eyes.

"Uh," Sinderion swallowed, nervousness compounded by her intense stare. He wasn't very good at lying, but he didn't want to have to deal with an unpleasant situation like before with Tamika. That, and this exhausted woman looked like she was ready to leap up and start running again if she knew what was really happening.

"There have been protests – you know, taxes, uhh... a lot of citizens are upset about the high tax on imported wine. Erm... just last week a tax agent was assaulted in the streets."

"Oh," Mona said, relaxing again. Sinderion breathed. His fumbling attempt at a lie would have failed if the listener had not been so severely sleep-deprived. "Fortunately, he's not a tax agent," she added with a yawn.

"Yes, that is something to be thankful for," Sinderion said. "But, ahh, it must be very urgent, if you've been on the road for four days without rest. I couldn't imagine doing that – even with fatigue potions. You've been using potions, yes?"

Mona stared fixedly at him again. She said absolutely nothing as she reached with both hands into the pockets sewn into the inner lining of her cloak, pulling one, two empty vials out and placing them on the table. Keeping her eyes on Sinderion, she then retrieved four more from her pack and set them out. That was six. Six empty vials in a straight line.

Potions. Of course she was using potions.

"I'm an alchemist, you know," he said helpfully. Mona was still staring at him wordlessly. "I could fill all of those vials for the same amount of gold you were offering me before for the room."

"You know what?" Mona said suddenly, tapping her chin as she watched Sinderion with renewed interest. "I like you. I just realized that anyone else in your position could have lied about having a room to take my gold. And six potions are worth a lot more than thirty drakes. You seem like a really good person."

Sinderion felt a sting of guilt for lying to her about Kvatch. But he said nothing.

For the next hour or so the woman was dozing with the cloak wrapped around herself like a blanket. She was curled up on the wooden bench, which did not look very comfortable, but Sinderion supposed there were far worse places to sleep. Mona did not wake until Erina kindly came upstairs balancing a tray with the evening meal for both of them. Sinderion was glad that the publican remembered he was up here. He knew that she hadn't been looking for him in his cellar, because if she had already been there, she'd be throwing the tomato stew in his face rather than politely serving it to him from a tray.

"You didn't tell me that there was someone else waiting for a room." Mona groused sleepily. It seemed she'd forgotten the part where Sinderion had mentioned he was not here to commandeer her reservation, but anyone would have had difficulty with short-term memory with the level of sleep deprivation she was at.

Erina blinked, then smiled. "Who... oh, you mean Sinderion? He lives here," she said, thankfully answering for him. "Don't worry, dear, I told you that the Emery family is leaving after dinner. Your room will be ready soon."

"Is that a promise?"

"Uh, yes, I suppose it is. You did pay me already, and I wrote your name in the ledger."

"If they don't leave, can I have his room?" Mona asked, waving vaguely in the Altmer's direction.

"Yes," Sinderion answered automatically.


	7. Dagail

**A/N: This chapter never would have come to be if Deplaisance de la Nuit had not mentioned Dagail. So, thanks, because I probably would have overlooked her otherwise! It's uh, I'm not sure if it's anything close to what you might have expected, but I hope you enjoy it all the same!**

* * *

 **8 Hearthfire, 3E 433**

 **Blackwood**

 **6:30 AM**

The morning birds woke Dagail, and she opened her eyes to the violet-blue dawn sky. Encircled in mist, she lay supine in a bed of moist earth, somewhere near the village of Border Watch.

The sheep were grazing all around her; she could hear them pulling grass from the ground with their teeth. Two feet away, a shorn ewe stared impassively at Dagail, chewing slowly. It bleated at her and then ambled to another patch of vegetation.

 _A heavyset Khajiit carried on a gold palanquin his fur many-colored speaks 'Peace has more value than rivers of jewels. The Mane is the land and the moons are his eyes.'_

Dagail spent the night here, on this plot of land because the sheep made her feel calm and there could be beautiful white empty space without the noise and complications of sentient thought.

Once part of Elsweyr, this little farm was now a fief of the Count of Leyawiin as per the Trans-Niben agreement. There was a sign freshly painted to read 'Merewater Croft' in red letters. These were dark moons for the Khajiit herders that owned this plot of land. But when the River Malapi became the Lower Niben for the Khajiit, the sheep were indifferent; they still had grass and a shed and the disputes of bipedal persons did not affect them. Sheep were complacent. They did not make so much noise because they did not have so many needs and motives.

 _Let them tell you what to say what to think say yes please and no thank you wash yourself so they don't think we are filthy animals. We must wear trousers and skirts like they do and shirts with buttons._

The sheep were always content when they had what they needed.

They were gentle and calm and did not cry out not even when they were in pain.

 _This 'farewell,' Khajiit does not understand. There exists no Ta'agra word for it. We say... 'warm sands' or 'swift hunting.'_

The shepherds' daughter came outside with a wooden bucket bouncing against her knees. Her fur was gray and coal-striped and she stopped when she saw Dagail and stared with glass-green eyes.

Dagail might have turned invisible but she did not. She could see the life lattice of this kitten clear in front of her. Six years old now, had sixty years more until she died alone on the sun-baked clay streets of Dune while senche-tigers prowled the crumbling steps to the temple of the Twin Moons.

" _You are Renrijra. Leave. We want no trouble here. And the Renrijra cause nothing but trouble."_

" _Ah, how your words sting. But the most beautiful flower in the jungle must also be the most deadly."_

" _She must be, to protect herself from predators such as you."_

" _Again, you misjudge. So tragic. This one's name is M'athizzar."_

" _Away, jihatt. We give no hand-outs to rabble-rousers."_

" _M'athizzar promises to leave, if he can have but one thing: your name."_

" _Zivahra. Now leave. Afore this one calls the guard."_

" _Ahaha, the guard! So you are the Count's pet kitty? Does he set out a silver bowl with milk for your family to lap up? Oh, but M'athizzar shall leave, Zivahra. Zivahra! The name is sugar on this one's lips."_

"Your name is Zivahra, yes?"

The Khajiit child blinked at Dagail.

"Yes'm."

Agata would find this place soon. Dagail could feel her walking double-pace along the Green Road.

"Soon, you will meet someone. He will make you smile and he will give you gold earrings that glitter in the sun but do not take him as your mate. His lies will taste like sugar but he will only take you from your home and bring despair."

"Zivahra will not go with this person," she promised, not understanding fully.

Dagail knew her words would be forgotten by Frostfall.

How could anyone accept free will as a fundamental truth when the architects of the world had taught them this concept? The gods still coaxed their actions and reactions like a herding dog to sheep, planted suggestions with the illusion of original thought. Removing the lenses of falsehood Dagail could see the hands of Aetherius in every aspect of their lives, could see that even when mortals were given knowledge of the effects of their future actions, little could be done to change the eventual outcome.

 _I know what we can play! Darrius, Amelie, and I – we're the Legionnaires. Lucien... you can be the monster! That means you have to run from us!_

She could see Time ahead of her like a many-leveled scaffold and Agata's bones moved her body closer.

What if everyone knew what Dagail knew?

She knew the true nature of the illusion of Mundus beyond the milky veil of magic but she did not know any words to describe it. It could only be explained with the language of the gods because knowing the syllable of starlight was not enough. CHIM was but another state of mind that the gods deemed acceptable for certain mortals to achieve. Anyone who wished to go beyond that had to be more powerful than all the gods at once or they would will them into nonexistence.

 _The others have it wrong. They should be the ones to run from the monster. They will fear me yet._

"I do not want you here," Dagail said out loud. She knew Agata was approaching from behind. The noise of her thoughts and memories preceded her.

 _You what? Didn't mean to break it? That plate was my mother's! We'll never impress the court mage with our clayware. Ysmir's beard, what are we going to do?_

"Look, you're absolutely drenched! Did you sleep here? Gods, you poor thing, you're shivering. We'll get you back to the Mages Guild."

"I am not a child, Agata. I can see forever and the stars speak to me in whispers. It's about the red diamond. The last of the dragon kings will destroy the jewel. Do we deserve his sacrifice? Are we not prolonging a deeper suffering by maintaining the illusion of our existence? I would not tell you these things if I were not looking to the starless Void. I see that it is beautiful and empty. There is no suffering. It is quiet. There is nothing. Do you know what happens when we venture to oppose the grand design? When we attempt to alter the path the gods have set for us? We become nothing because that is what they will."

Agata wrapped her arms around Dagail and she felt three times too much of her warm compassion and sickening pity. She allowed this embrace because it was what Agata wanted. Agata wanted to believe she was helping.

The voices swelled thousand-fold faceless voices from sixteen corners. Noisy, trivial chatter that smothered all else and made it impossible to think or speak.

 _Poor old Dagail she doesn't know INFANTILE CHILDLIKE bats-in-the-belfry poor poor thing poor thing what's happened to Dagail the steward is the stranger in the guild hall I feel sorry for her she makes me uncomfortable I'd stay away if I were you truly I don't know why she's in charge she can't even write her name Agata is the only one who can get anything done around here Agata knows yes Agata knows talk to Agata pooooooooor Dagail Agata what's happened to Dagail I don't know but please be kind to her and treat her with dignity she is in so much turmoil haunted hauntedhauntedhaunted by whispers apparently she can tell the future or something but honestly I think she's just delirious maybe she talks to Daedra makes sense quiet she can hear you_

"Please," Dagail begged. She loved Agata but this was enough.

* * *

 **10 Hearthfire, 3E 433**

 **Leyawiin Mages Guild**

 **1:00 PM**

No one else was meant to know about her night at Merewater Croft but the others were whispering. She heard all of their whispers. It clouded her ability to see that which was important, or at least that which she perceived as more important.

 _You hear about where Agata found Dagail the other day?_

 _Yeah, some farm or the like. Who cares what the old crone is doing? No one takes her serious anymore._

 _Chipped my tooth on a bottle, today. See?_

 _That's not something you should be proud of! Also, your breath stinks._

– _but why was he blushing?_

Surely this chatter meant something to others. But she spent every second of every day with these voices all around, as if she were trapped in a crowded marketplace day and night forced to hear and process not only every spoken word but every thought.

Dagail went out early that morning to purchase more wine. She hid the empty bottles from Agata. There was a pile behind her bed. 24 bottles now, 25 after tonight. It was the only way she could sleep anymore unless she went someplace else.

 _Find me by the waterfront lighthouse at sunset. I've a job for you, footpad. Don't be seen._

Dagail returned to her room in the afternoon and found a package on her writing desk with the stamp of the corner butcher.

She set the wine bottle on her night table.

A package. For her?

She stared at it until dark blood began to seep through the brown cloth.

It was a terrible, terrible prank – she knew that someone had sent her something gruesome. But she knew not what it was, and curiosity overpowered disgust for the moment.

Her pulse was hammering in her ear. She pulled on the twine and the knot unraveled and the cloth unfurled, revealing a grisly sight.

Dead eyes brown and filmy gazing into nothingness. Dagail took a step back and shrieked. A sheep's head someone had sent her a sheep's head chopped off at the neck. The wool was matted with dried blood and rheum crusted at the corners of her eyes.

Her heart was her throat. Dagail's eyes filled with tears. She could only take sharp breaths and her legs could not carry her anymore. She fell into her chair but she could not pry her gaze from the severed head.

Even in pain, a sheep did not make a sound.

Later – Dagail did not know how much later but three flies had already gathered around the ewe's head on her desk – Agata appeared and shouted all sorts of things but Dagail could not hear most of it. She was still looking at the light pink coloration in the center of the sheep's ears.

"This is horrible! I – this is tantamount to a threat! I don't know if you'll be safe – you can sleep in my room tonight. I can't believe someone would do this – wait until I get my hands on them, just you wait – I'll go to the butcher first thing in the morning, find out who did this."

"No need. I already know who sent this to me," Dagail said calmly.

 _Morgiah's satin dress twirls in the red candlelight as she waltzes with the King of Worms deep within the crypt. An orchestra of corpses in varying stages of decomposition play the accompaniment, bony fingers sliding along strings and frets. One two three one two three one two three. She meets his cold lips and he tastes of roses and decay. He greedily steals another kiss, but it is her soul he truly hungers for._

"Then – please, tell me the name so that I may have them expelled."

"No need," Dagail repeated in a dry whisper. She had forgotten to hide the wine but Agata did not notice.

 _We believe that the immortal necromancer Mannimarco had trapped his own soul long ago and transferred it to a phylactery, some precious object, and sustains his physical body through necromantic means. We do not know where or what this phylactery might be, but that is why we have come here today. Arch-Mage, we have been told of the mysterious amulet sent here for safekeeping from the Mages Guild in Vivec. We implore you, Master Traven, please destroy that vile thing. We have no need to put this – this macabre trinket on display._

There was only one place to look and that was the basement. Dagail's feet padded down the low steps.

She turned the corner and stopped suddenly on her heel, balancing herself on the wall as she stared at the face of the one who had escaped her foresight. Dagail uttered a gasp but she could not hear it. Panic rang in her ears and her heart lurched in shock. There he was. Kalthar. The voices were hidden from her because he had her stone. The only one whose actions she could not foresee.

He had a wide, sloped forehead with thick misanthropic eyebrows and thin lips that sometimes sneered but never smiled. His hands – pale and surprisingly delicate - twitched upon seeing her. Kalthar was tall, taller than the Bosmer, but for a Nord he would be considered scrawny, and his slight hunchback made him appear shorter. He was weak, physically. Sickly. The other children would bully him and steal his lunch pail and his father would beat him for losing the pail.

 _'It's useless to waste time caring what others think. If you don't like me, I'm not going to change for you,'_ he would often declare but that morning he had brushed his ordinarily scraggy hair until it shone and parted it in the center before he went out.

They were alone now, but Dagail was not afraid. She could kill him without quickening her pulse but that was not what she willed.

Kalthar scoffed. "Why do you deign to come down here?" His eyes were a cemetery.

"To retrieve that which you have stolen. That which belongs to me."

The journeyman bristled. He looked away.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Now, unless you had something substantial to say to me, I really must be going."

* * *

 **Fort Blueblood**

 **7:25 PM**

Three hours from Leyawiin to Fort Blueblood and Kalthar did not know that Dagail was following after him. Or, if he was aware, he did not betray any hint of that. With her farsight blocked by his possession of the stone she could only guess at his actions. Perhaps it was a risky thing, to go after him by herself. He was the only one whose soul did not whisper to her. But as passive and patient as she had remained throughout this entire ordeal, she could not allow him to take her father's stone too.

In the old Imperial fort where her father once served she heard him and so many others talking but she strained to listen to her father's voice that had echoed for close to two centuries.

– _Name?_

– _Manduin, sir._

– _Surname?_

– _Just Manduin, sir._

– _Place of birth?_

– _Arenthia, sir._

– _You mean like the wine?_

– _It's in Valenwood, sir. We were forced to flee when the Camoran Usurper captured the city in 249._

– _I didn't ask for your life story, recruit. Age?_

– _Nineteen, sir._

As she walked through the dusty old halls, past the bodies of recently slain bandits, Dagail saw the crumbling stone straighten into formidable castle walls, she saw a ghostly fire light itself in the hearth, saw the wood-rot disappear from the long dining tables and hundreds of hungry legionnaires eating the same meal and discussing technique.

 _No, the next time that happens, that's when you take them by the wrist and jerk them hard towards you. If it doesn't disarm them you'll at least break their arm!_

Then, she heard chains rattling. She looked towards the hall leading to the dungeons.

 _They took my little girl, Stendarr's mercy, they took my sweet baby girl, what else could I do?_

In a different century her father swung at a practice dummy, awkward in ill-fitted plate armor and a standard-issue longsword too heavy for a lithe Bosmer such as he, but he never complained. The banners had long been taken down and sold by the yard but Dagail could see them now, dyed vibrant crimson with redwort flowers, with the black Imperial dragon painted in the center.

Kalthar had locked the massive wooden doors leading to the crypt. Doors. Wood. Did he truly believe this would keep her out? Dagail held up both hands and burst through with a focused fireball.

The Nord was there. He had pulled out her father's coffin and opened it. His pale necromancer hands touching her father's bones... Dagail pushed that thought out of her head and appeared before him, stepping through the ashes as she approached.

"I... this..." he sputtered, staring dumbly first at her, and at the open coffin. He held her father's amulet in one hand but he had broken the chain.

A bluish-white mist encircled her arm and she started to pull the necklace towards her with telekinesis, but as soon as Kalthar felt it slipping from his fingers he closed his hand into a hard fist, trapping the stone within it.

Dagail was calm. She did not raise her voice.

"What did you believe this would accomplish?"

The culprit's eyes darted everywhere except Dagail's face.

"I... I was just _sick_ of this, alright? Of – of not being recognized for all the work I did, of an old steward who should have retired fifty years ago... with her head in Aetherius half the time and you never helped us with – I... I, you know, the others felt the same way but they were too cowardly to _do_ anything; I was only doing what everyone else wanted."

"I understand," Dagail said of his outburst. She was about to say something else, but Kalthar exploded again.

"What?! No, you don't understand. You don't understand the first thing about me, you just-"

"Your mother was your first corpse, wasn't she?"

Dagail took a step forward.

Kalthar took a step back into the wall. Like a cornered animal. "W-what? Shut up! You don't know anything!"

But Dagail did know. A spider had laid eggs in Ulvild's nostrils. Tiny spiders were crawling all over her face when Kalthar opened her coffin and beheld her in pale moonbeams. They buried her in her wedding dress but Kalthar's father removed all of her jewelry. He pawned it all for about a hundred septims.

"You were twelve. She was the only one that ever spared any kindness for you in this" now her face twisted angry, bitter, and for a moment she was Kalthar " _miserable world!_ " and then she was Dagail again.

The real Kalthar suddenly seemed very small and rodent-like. He shrunk into himself covering his face afraid of punishment.

"S-stop it! How- you don't know that-"

"I do. And I know about how she always kissed your eyelids before you went to sleep, one eye at a time. You begged her to do it every night because she told you it protected you from nightmares."

Two big tears ran down Kalthar's face. He stared at her with a combination of fury and terror.

"What _are_ you? What do you think you are? I could... I could kill you, you know...!" He raised his fists, the broken chain of her father's pendant still trapped between his fingers.

Dagail shook her head. Empty threats. Both of them knew how easily she could destroy him.

"I have seen her, just as I have seen you, Kalthar. She died before you were ready for her to leave. All you wanted was to bring her back. And she loved you. More than anything. More than herself. I know that she has forgiven you, Kalthar. She'd want you to forgive yourself."

Nothing else was said for several minutes and she only heard Kalthar's sobbing noises.

"W-why aren't you angry?" the journeyman finally stuttered, words difficult through shortened breaths. Now she could see him only as a child again, as that boy poring secretively over an old spellbook by the light of a candle, frightened that his father would sneak up from behind him with a willow switch. "Aren't you – I stole your amulet, and I was about to steal your father's. I put a bloody sheep's head on your desk! You've _known_ it was me for a long time, haven't you? But you did nothing... aren't you going to – to hurt me, or something? Why are you just... _standing_ there like that? Your face – it's so blank, you're like a, like some kind of doll, I never see your face change... do you even feel anything?"

"Give me the amulet," Dagail said firmly.

He returned both – first hers, then her father's to his coffin. It all felt as if it were happening terribly slowly. But he complied with her request.

As soon as she had the stone in her hand, Dagail turned her back and started towards the doorway.

"What – you're just going to walk away?" he called out after her. She could hear him clambering to his feet and jogging after her. Dagail quickened her stride.

When she finally burst through the heavy double doors leading out to Blackwood, Dagail clasped the pendant around her neck and inhaled deeply the humid swampy air.

She closed her eyes and opened them and finally saw the ancient cypress trees, some dating back to the Merethic Era. Their cascading branches swayed in the gentle breeze. The crickets had begun their evening song and she could see the simmering sunset over the horizon painted in streaks of pink and orange and the reflection on still water. The colors of the world no longer were muted pastels, a background to the overwhelming voices, but vivid hues more beautiful than anything she could remember. It felt as if she had awakened from some terrible nightmare, that all of this time without her stone she had been asleep, barely able to function, unable to keep herself grounded in Mundus when she was focused on the voices of the past and of possible futures. Everything was under her control again. Dagail could turn around and _look_ at Fort Blueblood without hearing the noise of thousands of legionnaires that had been dead for centuries.

Kalthar was just now exiting the fort, stumbling over a crawling vine on the steps.

Dagail watched him, though he still was too ashamed to meet her gaze.

"You will not return to the Leyawiin Mages Guild. I will not file an official report, nor will I tell any of our colleagues of this incident, but you are strongly advised to leave tomorrow morning."

How easily these words came to her now. Professional, concise, tactful.

Kalthar blinked at her, and there was a pause, as if he expected her to dole out another punishment. True, her verdict was absolutely mild compared to his crimes, and she could rightly have him expelled, or even sent to jail, but neither option would benefit anyone.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbled, thick-tongued, having difficulty with his words after she had found her own.

Dagail placed a hand on his shoulder. At first, Kalthar jumped out of instinct, but he finally met her eyes. He even bent over slightly to meet her height.

"You were not a monster until you believed yourself to be one. The most powerful illusions are those manifested by our own minds. If you will yourself to be a better person, you may yet become one."

"I... I'm not sure where I would go, actually..." Kalthar started.

"I see strife erupting soon with the Guild at Bruma. The future is veiled to me, yet the more obscure a vision is, the more mutable the outcome. Great danger lies ahead. Worms in black robes set flames in the night, and the King himself appears with a crown of bones. Many people will die. But the Fate I see is not inevitable. One person, one unknowable factor is all that is needed to change the intended course of history."

"Bruma..." Kalthar said in an exhale. He stood as straight as his hunch allowed and gazed into the setting sun, eyes flickering with renewed purpose. He might have been handsome if he could learn to smile again, but perhaps this was close enough, with his eyebrows finally unknit and his face softening, humbled at last. It seemed for now he was too exhausted to be abrasive anymore. Dagail rather appreciated the change in demeanor.

Then, Kalthar's eyes met hers again. They looked at each other for a heavy moment, saying nothing, hearing only the whispering of the trees and the nightly insect chorus, but he was the one to break the silence.

"Can you point which direction is north?"


	8. Jearl

**14 Hearthfire, 3E 433**

 **Olav's Tap and Tack, Bruma**

 **8:20 PM**

Jearl had no taste for mead, but she had a flagon in front of her from which she occasionally sipped. Even as a Redguard, anonymity was an easy thing to maintain in a Nordic tavern. Particularly when thirty or so inebriated people were cramped shoulder-to-shoulder in a hall only able to seat fifteen or so. The dingy place was once a tack shop, but now it served as an inn and the scent of saddle leather still lingered in the air.

A man played the flute while Alga the Bard roused the drunken masses with her rendition of the Song of Hromir. All of the faces blended together, shadows tinged with orange from the dim candlelight.

After some time of waiting, the door creaked open, and a momentary gust of cold wind blew through the tavern. Aside from a few grumbles from the patrons to close the door quickly please, the clapping and singing and drinking went on as usual with no one paying the newcomers a second glance.

Fools. This was why it had been so easy to lay waste to Kvatch. Peacetime had spoiled the people of Cyrodiil into complacency. The denizens of provincial, quiet little towns like Bruma were no longer suspicious of strangers. Of people like _her._ Not that she minded their trust. It was interesting to see how far she could push people without them realizing she was manipulating them. Even Olav, the ruddy-faced innkeep would find any excuse to sneak glances at her or walk by her table. He was too Nordic for her liking, with an ample paunch from too many lonely nights with too much mead, but she knew he might be useful and so she returned his looks with coy little smiles because it made his heart flutter. At least, it made his face even redder.

Jearl squinted. The lighting was too poor to see much of the new arrivals stamping the snow off their boots, but it would do well to scrutinize them. After the success of their strike on Weynon Priory, Jearl had been ordered to make haste to Bruma, for an informant believed that the bastard heir had actually survived the siege on Kvatch with the help of an unknown Redguard woman. Given that they had effectively blotted Kvatch off the maps, this seemed unlikely, but here Jearl was, quaffing disgusting mead in a Nord tavern.

Jearl's orders were to observe, not confront, for the Heir posed no more of a threat to the Mythic Dawn than any other magicka-wielder of middling ability. Without the Amulet of Kings, he was nothing. Master Raven was still toying with the idea that this Septim, if alive, could be of use to them, after whispers of his less-than-pious past came to their attention. Mistress Ruma, however, heartily disagreed, as she often did with anything her brother said. The bickering pair of siblings that were Jearl's superiors still awaited orders from their father, but for now it was pertinent that the agent maintain her cover.

She couldn't hear the conversation between Olav and the travelers because of all the merriment. Jearl had a mind to shove the flute down the flautist's throat. Instead, she took another swig of mead and waited, fingers twiddling with impatience.

One was a female Redguard, armed and armored with a pack slung over her shoulder and her helmet under her arm. She seemed like the sort who always had to be on the move. Even now she shifted her weight between her feet while the male in soot-stained priest robes spoke to the innkeeper.

Eventually, the two were led upstairs.

Jearl waited five more minutes before she stood. As she passed the performers she dropped a single drake in Alga's cup and slipped unseen up the steps to the second floor.

Olav's Tap and Tack had only two renter rooms, and the guests had been set up with the closest room to the stairs. She could already hear voices even before she approached the door.

Peering through the keyhole, Jearl could confirm that the female was indeed a Redguard. Like Jearl. Very dark in complexion as well, unlike most Cyrodiil-born Redguards with diluted blood. During that time she had stripped herself of her armor. Her mail hauberk was laid neatly on the bench, beneath a folded white tabard. All she wore now was a short-sleeved linen shirt with the loops of her suspenders off her shoulders and hanging down from her waist. She was leaning over the bed, a look of genuine elation on her face as she fiddled with the square window which was no larger than a chapbook.

"Hey, Martin – you see these tiny little windows? They've got these shutters, they look like miniature doors! Is it alright if I open them...? Oh! Look! You can see the Chapel of Talos from here!"

But while the Imperial, sitting on the bench opposite the bed was nodding in acknowledgment, he wasn't looking anywhere near the open little window that seemed to fascinate the woman so. Apparently his traveling companion's excited face was a lot more interesting to him. He was even smiling to himself as he watched her. Altogether he had an average sort of look; angular face, skin tan like a farmer's, blue eyes somewhat striking.

The priest filled Jearl with a strange sort of anger, and the thought that he was content at watching this woman bothered her. It was nearly infuriating to see him close to happy. She just didn't like priests. Particularly Imperial priests of the Nine Divines. They were so... damn sanctimonious all the time. Acted like it was their humble duty to 'save' everyone by showing them the glorious light of Mara and Stendarr and whoever. It was annoying.

It didn't have anything to do with her childhood in Rihad, or that her family of social pariahs suddenly found themselves outlaws when King Lhotun persecuted Satakal worshipers who refused to convert to the ways of the Nine. No, as a child she'd always thought her parents _absurd,_ to sacrifice a roof over their heads and food in their bellies so that they could wear snakeskins and dance half-naked in bizarre rituals while the rest of the Divines-fearing Forebear majority called them heathens. And then, when they could no longer be public with their perverse behavior, they were always running. Jearl had never met anyone more selfish than her parents. She'd dreamed of the many different ways she could kill them as she lay alone in the tent, shivering and weak from ataxia because they refused to allow a priest of the Divines to treat her. In the end, Jearl wasn't the one who killed them. The other bandits did. After she stole some jewels and placed them with her family's belongings, she innocently informed the chief that she was worried her parents had done something wrong. She was ten.

No, this wasn't about her miserable childhood or any perceived _slights_ against her by the Empire. She just didn't like Imperial priests.

"You're certain it's fair of me to sleep first?" the woman asked, latching the window shut now.

She spoke crisp, sharp. Vowels cropped like cut reeds. Though only traces of an accent were distinguishable beneath her precise elocution, Jearl knew this woman was from the Abecean Isles south of Hammerfell. Probably with a privileged background. What was she doing _here_ , out of a guard uniform, with a common priest?Maybe she was banished from the court. Offended some wealthy prince or other who evicted her from the lap of luxury. Apparently they weren't sleeping together, if they were sleeping in shifts. She wasn't about to jump to the conclusion that this meant that Martin was the Septim heir, but it certainly meant they were hiding from _something_.

"Mona, please. We both know you've been working harder than I have," the man said. "Besides, I got enough rest when we made camp in that Ayleid ruin."

Mona. Her name was Mona.

"You mean the other time you took the first shift and let me sleep longer than I was supposed to? You only had three hours, at most, and we've been traveling all day," she said.

But the priest completely ignored her remark.

"What's this?"

He placed a thumb under Mona's chin. The Redguard blinked.

"Huh?" she asked, tilting her head up.

"There's a cut right here."

"Oh, right. I accidentally tried to scratch my chin when I had my gauntlets on. The knuckles have spikes! I'd forgotten about that."

"Here, allow me to... I mean, It's deep enough for an infection."

Without removing his thumb, the priest's hand began to glow with a pale blue aura. Even after the magic faded the two of them gazed dumbly at each other for a moment, her head still tilted upwards under Martin's thumb. Her lips were parted slightly as if she expected a kiss, but he was not moving forward to claim one. At this point Jearl didn't know what to make of it. What were they doing? It was... why was she even here? Jearl had been sent back to Bruma for reconnaissance. She'd expected a mundane surveillance task, maybe successfully extract a nugget or two of pertinent information at best. Instead, she was being subjected to this disgusting spectacle – yes, disgusting, like all the times she would catch her parents grinning at each other like dew-eyed newlyweds.

"You don't have to heal every single cut and scrape I get, you know," Mona finally said.

Martin responded with a mirthless chuckle. "It makes me feel less useless."

"I don't think you're useless."

They were still gazing at each other. And slowly, gradually, the priest was bringing his face closer to hers... Jearl wanted to turn her head away but she forced herself to watch, grinding her teeth with inexplicable fury as she stared unblinking through the keyhole. She had to swallow to keep from retching.

"I'll, uhh..." Martin broke away suddenly, smoothing out his robes. Praise Dagon for that. "I'll get us something to -"

He hastily stood up - proceeding to bang his head on the ceiling above him. Had he forgotten what room they were in? They were directly below the roof, with the ceiling sloping right above them. And to think, _this_ man could potentially be the one the Blades wanted to make Emperor. Jearl wasn't certain why the Mythic Dawn even needed to bother with the bastard heir. They could bring the Empire to ruin by merely allowing this imbecile to take the throne.

"Ow," he mumbled, placing one hand on his head. Mona covered her mouth but she was clearly trying not to laugh at him.

"Maybe you need a healing spell," she deadpanned.

"No, I'll erm, what I was going to say was – I'll see if I can find us something to eat."

He started towards the door which Jearl swiftly moved away from, darting to the opposite side of the room. She crouched in a corner with her hands pressed against her temples, as if she were nursing a headache.

The door opened and then closed, and just as Jearl dreaded, the footsteps were moving in her direction. It was him. Maybe he was the bastard heir. Or maybe he was a common priest. It didn't matter. Jearl seethed at the thought of him alive. He stopped a few feet behind her. She clenched her teeth and placed her hands on the splintering wood floor, focusing on keeping her breathing steady.

"Miss?"

A warm hand rested on Jearl's shoulder. Reflexively, she flinched from it as if a rat had crawled up her arm.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just... you look terribly unwell. Is there anything at all I could help you with?"

He spoke softly, as if Jearl were made of glass. It was almost too much to bear that he deigned to _help_ her.

She scraped the floorboards with her fingernails and squeezed her eyes shut. Despite her revulsion, she managed to muster up enough willpower to feign tipsy laughter.

"Ah, hah, no, sir. I'm afraid I might have had one drink too many, and I thought I'd merely wait it out up here, away from the crowd. Just leave me be. My head is pounding enough as is."

But Martin did not yield. His shadow over her loomed closer, the heavy fabric of his robes rustling as he moved. Why wouldn't he just go away? Was one Redguard woman not enough for him?

"Well, it's hardly fitting for me to leave a woman in your state alone. Especially when we're in a tavern full of rowdy strangers. Perhaps I could see you safely to your house, if you'd allow me. Don't worry, I'm a priest-"

"I don't need a _priest_ ," Jearl hissed, whirling around to glare at him.

The priest took a step back, inhaling sharply. There was a pause. Jearl wondered if her words had cut him. She hoped that they did.

"Alright, then. I'll bring you some water," Martin finally said.

Jearl blinked twice, and waited until the priest had started toward the stairs. Silently she followed after him on the balls of her feet. Eyes fixing on the nape of his neck. Her right hand twitched, and she wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her dagger. It was coated with a potent concentration of daedra venin and could paralyze a man of his size for several minutes. And she was so close to what may have very well been the Septim heir that he might have felt her warm breath on his neck were she not holding it in. He was so exposed – away from his gallant bodyguard – Jearl could stick him in the throat with her blade right now and leave him dead in the hallway, while she could quietly leave the tavern without anyone noticing. She would be a hero – the lone operative who had silenced the last hope of the Empire.

"Felix?"

Jearl exhaled all at once.

That was Mona's posh accent. How long had she been listening?

She stumbled backwards into a wall, feigning drunkenness again. But even after the priest turned at the sound of his false name (which revealed far more to Jearl than his true name) Mona was watching her the way a wolf eyed a potential threat. Calm, yet cautious. Jearl stared back, never dropping eye contact, and she could tell that Mona was disquieted by her unfaltering gaze, for she was the first to let her eyes waver slightly, a crease forming between her eyebrows as she frowned, clearly assuming that Jearl would have been intimidated by her. This slight apprehension _thrilled_ her to no end. It was akin to a princess fearing the scullery maid. The mere suggestion that this strong, dignified lady would be even the least bit unsettled by meek little Jearl in old sackcloth clothes practically made her salivate. Fear _fed_ Jearl, satiated her with the slightly dizzying comfort of eating a hot meal. And right now, Mona was a tantalizing feast.

"May I come with you?" Mona asked, looking up at Martin now, trying to communicate to him with her eyes, which were unsubtly darting in Jearl's direction for him to see.

Martin smiled fondly, and moved forward to embrace her. Though her head now rested on his shoulder Mona's eyes were still open, watching Jearl.

"Of course, love. Now that we've eloped, we don't have to hide anymore," he said in a mellow voice, keeping an arm wrapped around Mona as they made their way downstairs together.

Jearl was left standing in the corner, staring blankly ahead where Mona's head had been. It was only for a moment, but Jearl had seen a soft, dreamy smile on Mona's face right after the embrace, even though it was only meant to put up an act to elude suspicion of a priest traveling with a lady. The woman had _feelings_ for him. Shallow infatuation, perhaps, but it still soured her elation from earlier. If Mona had ever been afraid of Jearl, it was only for the sake of that _priest_. How disappointing. Now both of them were going to eat their fill downstairs while Jearl was left feeling unsatisfied. And also a bit nauseous.

Still, this was a good time for the operative to take her leave before she attracted any more suspicion than she already had. There was enough information to prepare a report for Ruma. There were far too many coincidences that hinted at this person being the heir that had slipped through the Mythic Dawn's fingers. Jearl was not discounting the possibility that he was a false lead, with the true heir somewhere in another tavern, or even another town, but that was why Jearl was here strictly to gather information and not stick a blade in something. In a way, perhaps Mona had even _saved_ Jearl by creating a diversion. She had been ready to _kill_ the priest, no matter who he was. If Jearl had acted on her own accord and killed the Septim bastard before the Mythic Dawn could evaluate his usefulness, Mankar Camoran would personally see that she never made it to his side of Paradise.

And _that_ would have been a tragedy.


	9. Adoring Fan

**Imperial City, Arena District**

 **20 Hearthfire, 3E 433**

 **9:00 AM**

By Azura, this was going to be the best day of his life!

Luffenil had to pull in all of his favors to get this day off, but oh, it would all be more than worth it! Fifty drakes were jangling in his coin purse. While he waited, the Bosmer must have counted them at least thirty times – just to make sure he still had enough. All of this seemed too good to be true, and he kept wondering if he might wake up from this wonderful dream. Yet here he was, standing here in the Arena District, craning his neck to see all of the red, blue, white, and yellow banners draped all around the massive amphitheater, eyes squinting at the sun-dazzled white stone. There was not a single cloud in the sky, though even standing in the rain would not have dampened Luffenil's spirits. He'd happily wait shivering in a blizzard for days if it meant he could see the Gray Prince fight! It was very rare that anyone even challenged the Grand Champion these days, and for good reason: the Gray Prince had held that title for an inconceivable _decade_. The opportunity to see him fight was a rare and beautiful occasion. Oh, the anticipation was almost too much to bear!

That was why the line snaked all the way around the plaza and out the gates into the Market District. The City Watch had to double the patrols in the Arena District to compensate for the enormous crowd that had gathered to witness this historic battle. If Luffenil ever had children, this would be the moment that he would always tell them about. And then his children would tell his grandchildren and his grandchildren would tell his great-grandchildren.

Of course Luffenil had wanted to make sure that he would be the first in line, so he'd been waiting here since the misty hours before dawn at the front of the wooden portcullis, standing between vibrant banners of red and white.

And it was almost time! The portcullis began to rise – oh, Luffenil's heart was pounding so hard! As he heard the rowdy crowd rushing behind him, he practically _ran_ into Hundolin wearing the usual puffy vest. The official-looking Bosmer was still setting up the betting table outside. Luffenil envied the bookkeeper his job. It must be wonderful to work for the arena! He could watch all of the matches he wanted for free!

Upon seeing Luffenil, Hundolin gave a little shudder – of recognition, perhaps. He was practically a regular. At least, he hung around the Arena district enough, even when he couldn't afford to watch a match.

"Hello! I'm here to place my bet on the Gray Prince!" he shouted, making sure he was loud enough to be heard above the din of conversation.

But the other Bosmer arena aficionado merely scoffed, dipping the nib of a quill pen in ink. "Oh. It's _you._ Laffiel, right?"

"Luffenil, actually!" he corrected cheerfully.

Hundolin shuddered again. He gently tapped the excess ink on the lip of the well and began to write on the spreadsheet. Luffenil was the first name on the list! How exciting! His hands were shaking as he emptied all of his coins on the table. Fifty Septims. Luffenil couldn't help but swell with pride at seeing that much gold in one place. It'd taken him three months to save that much from his meager salary as a waiter at the Tiber Septim Hotel, and he'd been meaning to spend it on a pair of new boots, but as soon as he heard that the Gray Prince was going to fight he knew he absolutely _had_ to be there!

And so he was here, and he could feel his heart pounding all the way in his throat.

Hundolin rolled his eyes, quickly sliding the gold towards him as he counted two coins at a time. He scribbled something else on the parchment. Luffenil leaned forward to peer at what he was writing. The bookkeeper lifted his quill momentarily, glaring.

"Really, do you _mind?_ " he snapped. Hundolin sounded a bit miffy today. Luffenil couldn't imagine why. Somebody had actually challenged the Grand Champion!

"You spelled my name wrong. You put an 'e' where there should be an 'i' and, and also I spell it with two f's-"

"Sure, sure, don't wet yourself. Go through the door on the right. Oh, and try not to upset the other patrons this time, would you? I hear one more complaint and you're banned from the seats. Got it?"

"Understood!"

By Azura, he still couldn't get over that he was actually _recognized_ by the staff out of the droves that came to watch!

Walking through the door into the enclosed space of the amphitheater was like entering another realm. The late-morning sun caught the tall wooden scaffolding, casting long shadows over the fresh sand in the pit. Several vendors were hawking food and brandy at exorbitant prices, but Luffenil had prepared and brought his own food. Slowly, the other patrons trickled in, and though they mostly filtered themselves by social status, what was special about the arena was how easily the distinctions between race and class were blurred. It wasn't entirely unheard-of to see, for example, a cloth merchant mingling with an art collector along the arcade, or a stock broker clanking glasses with a fruit seller. Naturally, the _very_ important people reserved their seats at the uppermost section and didn't like to mingle so much. When Luffenil squinted he could have sworn he saw in one box the famed author Alessia Ottus with her husband and daughter. And – he could hardly believe it, but his eyes had never lied to him before – in another box, he beheld the Arch-Mage Hannibal Traven wearing the unmistakable blue and gold robes of his office, flanked by two official-looking battlemages!

A brassy procession of horns played a fanfare as pointy-hatted musicians marched out the vomitoria, costumed in red or blue depending on which side they entered from.

Luffenil's back straightened up and he strained to listen. There were so many sights and sounds and smells unique to the arena! Oh, he couldn't wait to tell everyone else at the Hotel about this!

As the music faded, a magically amplified voice echoed across the stadium. Though he had no idea what the announcer even looked like, that distinct, rich male voice had commentated every match for as long as the Bosmer could remember. It was difficult to imagine anyone else doing it.

" _Ladies and gentlemen, she comes all the way from Whiterun..."_

A tall Nord woman with a braided bun of silvery hair entered now. Fully armored in plate mail save for the helm, she strode with her nose pointed skyward, past the line of musicians. Following closely behind were two pages; one holding one of those Nordic helmets by the horns, the other a sheathed longsword. The crowd erupted into a ferocious cacophony of cheers, claps, boos, and hisses, until the announcer's voice rose above all the noise.

" _...her heart as cold as a Skyrim winter..."_

Luffenil leaned over the balcony, able to see her hard features and narrowed eyes as she stared straight ahead at the portcullis at the opposite end of the arena.

" _... she tore through her opponents, climbed through the ranks, cast aside the trappings of nobility to seek a different crown..."_

The woman placed a hand on her hip, snapping a finger to summon her page. Practically stumbling over herself, the girl knelt in front of the combatant, holding out the sword. The Nord drew the pristine steel blade slowly and deliberately.

" _...ruthless enough to seek to usurp her own mentor … I give you... THE GRAY LADY!"_

As soon as the audience started screaming, the Nord woman reacted with a look of unmistakable disgust. She was looking all around the arena, her lips clearly mouthing the word " _What?!"_

Was she surprised by the unfriendly reception? Luffenil couldn't imagine why! She was a traitor! Betrayed the noble and gallant Gray Prince, who had been kind enough to take the time and effort to train her, to help her get to this level, only for everyone to find out that she had been using him the entire time! It was absolutely _low!_

Luffenil had thought she'd been going by a different name... Silver-Eye the Wicked or something equally insidious-sounding (truly, Luffenil saw her treachery coming months earlier; with a name like _that_ it was shocking that anyone was _surprised_ about this), but if she was calling herself the Gray Lady now she must have been trying really hard to bill herself as a successor to the Gray Prince.

When the announcer resumed his speech, the crowd immediately fell silent. Luffenil's stomach was doing somersaults.

Time stopped for a moment.

" _Yet... there is still hope! The fate of the Arena rests on his shoulders. He slept on straw bedding instead of silk sheets. He had no proper swordplay lessons to perfect his technique; he learned by fighting in the muddy streets of the Waterfront District. Despite the adversity he had faced before coming here, his unrelenting honor and courtesy has always shone through, a testament to his noble blood! Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the undefeated, longest-reigning Grand Champion, as gallant as he is imposing ... THE GRAY PRINCE!"_

The fanfare sounded again but Luffenil wasn't paying attention to the music.

A pale-skinned orc entered the arena pit through the opposite vomitorium in all his regalia. The scales of his armor scintillated in the sun, resplendent with crimson velvet trimmed with gold, positively fit for royalty.

Luffenil _screamed._ The rest of the audience had the same idea.

This felt _unreal._ He'd only seen the Gray Prince's likeness on posters – but they could not possibly do him justice. The drawings had not captured his noble poise, his gentle demeanor.

Someone from the crowd had tossed a small bouquet of lady's smock at the orc. He waved in appreciation at the direction from which it had been thrown and attached the lacy white spray to his cuirass.

Then, the helmets went on, and no one might have known that the Gray Prince was an orc. No one could see his opponent was a lady, either. They had become two deadly suits of armor, one decorated in red and the other in blue, longswords ready for battle.

The combatants faced each other and bowed. They took two steps back, staring through the expressionless visors of their helmets, behind which Luffenil could only guess at the deep emotions that might be displayed on their faces.

And now it was time for the dance to begin. The tension charged the combatants like two lodestones; movement wavering between attracting and repelling. Their swords met briefly with a clash of steel, sparks flying, and they pushed away from each other. The Gray Prince and the Gray Lady continued to circle like sharks, vigilant and swift.

Luffenil did not even want to blink for fear of missing an instant of action.

The Lady was the aggressor, her boots kicking up sand as she darted for an opening. But the Prince parried her high strike, and she caught his subsequent thrust and disengaged.

The dance continued, the master and the former pupil, both with an intimate understanding of how to counter the other's technique after Azura knew how many hours of sparring. That was the only reason this Gray Lady had any chance of defeating the Champion. He had doubtlessly bested her hundreds of times already.

Everything was happening so quickly, it was difficult to follow. There were several flurries of strikes, blows exchanged, but nothing ever hit. This continued for almost a minute.

And then, when the Gray Prince blocked one more strike, he countered by elbowing her in the ribcage.

The woman's legs buckled. She fell to one knee. Her sword was still pinned under the Gray Prince's and he stomped his left boot down on her blade.

The crowd went _wild._

But just when Luffenil thought it was all over, the Gray Lady relinquished her weapon, instead grasping the orc's arm with both of her armored hands. Still on the ground, she pulled him towards her, kicking at his legs at the same time.

He did lose his balance and his sword, but he maneuvered himself so that when he fell, he would roll onto his front and easily bounce back to his feet. The both of them lunged for the Lady's longsword at the same time – the Gray Prince had his hands wrapped around the blade, while the Lady had both hands on the hilt.

Then – suddenly – the Gray Lady let go. She darted around the Gray Prince for _his_ longsword that he had dropped earlier, and grabbed it!

They had switched weapons! Just like that, the Gray Prince was wielding the Gray Lady's longsword, and she was brandishing his!

The crowd was screaming so loud that Luffenil was worried he would leave the arena partially deaf. But he was cheering as loud as he could, as well! This was all so exciting!

The combatants circled around each other once more, darting in and out to exchange quick blows. It was clear the Gray Lady had not practiced with a bigger longsword before, and her reaction was suffering as she was still struggling to find the right grip.

The Gray Prince feinted to the left, and she fell for it. He grabbed her sword arm and kicked her in the chest.

She fell on her back, disarmed.

The Gray Prince was holding both weapons upright. The crowd had already begun their death chant. They wanted blood. They always wanted blood.

Kneeling now, the Gray Lady removed her helmet, shaking out her silvery hair which had come loose during the battle, and now fell damp and heavy to her shoulders. The Gray Prince stood in front of her a moment, both swords in hand. He tossed her sword – that is, the one that belonged to her – on the sand in front of her.

Then he walked away, sheathing his own weapon.

Maybe the crowd had forgotten that they wanted blood (Luffenil himself always winced at the sight of it; messy business, that) for they were cheering the Gray Prince's name anyway.

Was the match over already? Did this mean he had to go home now?

* * *

 **The Tiber Septim Hotel**

 **3:00 PM**

The Tiber Septim Hotel stood in the center circle of the Talos Plaza district, just across from the statue of Akatosh. Being one of the highest buildings in the district, Luffenil could see the verdigris cupola towering above the rest of the skyline.

The hotel was the most posh of its kind in all of Cyrodiil, perhaps even the Empire. The thirty-three suites were beyond the definition of luxurious, each equipped with marble washrooms and velvet couches and windows as large as those found in chapels. Not to mention fully serviced by a staff that Luffenil was a part of. Yes, the Tiber Septim Hotel was the _only_ place for important visitors, and a few particularly wealthy permanent residents. Many came to the Hotel every night simply to dine.

Of course, it was not proper for servants to use the front entrance, especially when he was wearing his everyday linens, so Luffenil entered through the back door. The lodgings for the servants were not quite so extravagant as the rest of the hotel because the guests would never see the splintered floors and the cracked stucco peeling off the stone walls, but Luffenil appreciated being employed here ever so much. It was a grand opportunity and he considered himself very lucky. And while the cost to stay one night in a room at the Hotel was more than a month's salary, he still felt he could live their glamorous life vicariously, just by cleaning the rooms and serving wine. Sometimes they even talked to him!

The kitchen was already bustling with action. Chefs were running here and there making preparations for the evening meal and he could already smell the aroma of mutton and spice.

Zulee-Tei and Doreleth greeted Luffenil curtly as he entered. They were too engrossed to pay him any more attention. He was absolutely bursting to tell them all that had happened at the Arena, but it was better for him to regale them with his tales of glory later, when they were not so preoccupied. The Argonian and the Dunmer were playing a game with many colored soapstone tiles at the old three-legged table, where they had carved a game board into the unvarnished wood with a knife some weeks ago, when Doreleth received the set as a gift from a guest.

"I capture your general," Zulee-Tei said placidly, lifting a red piece from the board.

Apparently Doreleth did not approve of this move. She slammed her fist down on the table, making some of the other tokens bounce.

"No, you don't capture it. That's just a footman! You can only move one space forward with it!" the Dunmer exclaimed.

"Consider it your penance. For slavery."

"Penance for what? The Nerevarine convinced King Helseth to abolish slavery years ago."

"This does not forgive the crimes of your ancestors." Zulee-Tei had a rather dry way of speaking; it was difficult to know if she was joking or not. Her facial expressions were foreign to 'smooth-skins' as she called the rest of the staff.

"My – what? This is ridiculous. My folks were egg miners in Gnisis. _You_ were raised in Cyrodiil. I owe you nothing." Doreleth crossed her arms for emphasis.

The air felt hot and static when the two glared at each other from across the table. Luffenil almost expected them to flip the table over and start fighting.

But that did not happen.

Eventually, Zulee-Tei made a hissing sound, like a sibilant sort of laughter.

"You're so – serious!" the Argonian uttered. Her tail brushed the floor as it flitted merrily back and forth.

Doreleth scowled. She snatched her general tile from Zulee-Tei. "Give me that," she said, replacing it on the board.

"It was not in that space before. It was just on the Daggerfall border," Zulee-Tei observed idly.

Wordlessly, Doreleth shifted her piece one space back. At last, the stoic Dunmer cracked a smile.

Zulee-Tei laughed again.

"Then, I am going to sacrifice my footman to poison your supply caravan. That disables your procession for... three turns?"

"Indeed. A fair move," Doreleth said.

"Perhaps not fair for the footman," Zulee-Tei opined.

"You're not meant to care about them. They're game pieces."

"Ah, fitting words for one like you. Is that not how the Dunmer treated their Argonian slaves?" she teased.

Doreleth rolled her eyes in response.

One of the bells on the wall behind them chimed twice. Number Sixteen.

The two players groaned, smoothing out their skirts.

"Sixteen is Drels. You should go. He likes you better," Zulee-Tei said to Doreleth. The Dunmer growled a string of curses in her native tongue under her breath.

"The _s'wit_ likes me a little too much. And not in the way he'd treat a lady," she muttered.

"He asked me whose plantation I had fled from, and ordered me to call him Serjo. He might complain to the Mistress if he has to see me again."

Clearly, neither of them wanted to help this guest. Luffenil did not blame them. Visiting from the court of Bravil, Drels Theran was an old, unpleasant Dunmer who had emigrated from Morrowind nearly a hundred years ago, yet his mindset had never quite left. There were rumors that he had once been a brutal enforcer of Tribunal law in a Temple city. Luffenil didn't know enough about Morrowind's history to know what any of that meant, but Zulee-Tei and Doreleth both had trouble with Drels and he didn't like it when the servants had to feel that way.

Fortunately, whenever Luffenil went to the cantankerous Dunmer's room, Drels hardly seemed to even notice that the Bosmer was there so long as he did his job quietly and left.

"Ah!" Luffenil exclaimed. "Let me change. I'll get to him right quick!"

"Erm..."

But before the two could protest, he dashed to the living quarters and opened his trunk, pulling on his silk britches and blue velvet shirt in less than a minute. Even the servants had to wear finery which took them months to pay off. They were, after all, part of the hotel's presentation. A presentation that had to be perfect.

Head chef Thaddeus stood in front of the doorway, blocking Luffenil's exit as he tried to hop out while pulling one shoe on. He stared up at the Imperial's tall white hat. It must have taken a lot of starching to get it to hold that shape. His skin was pale, and his head a perfect oval, like an egg. No wonder he became a chef.

"Mistress Calidia said that you're supposed to be off the rest of the day."

"Eh?" Luffenil blinked. "I can still get paid for a half-day's labor."

Yet Thaddeus was a grouchy egg today. "I don't have time for this. Don't go up there unless you want us all to get in trouble."

This was confusing. The Arena match had attracted all sorts of upper-class visitors to the Hotel; his help ought to have been needed.

Doreleth's face was a storm as she sidled past Thaddeus to stomp noisily up the steps to the lobby, making a point of her displeasure. The head chef himself mumbled some nonsense and vanished to check on the food, leaving a stunned Luffenil standing alone, with a shoe still in hand.

"Oi, Luffenil! Do you want to play Tiber Wars with me?" called Zulee-Tei from the kitchen.

They never asked Luffenil to play Tiber Wars.

Even though he was the only one who knew that the game wasn't actually called Tiber Wars, because it was a variation of an ancient Ayleid game with the names changed. Yet they still never asked him to play.

The offer was tempting, yes, but with how strange she and Thaddeus were acting it was difficult to accept. Perhaps he ought to speak with Mistress Calidia, make some sense of her orders.

* * *

When Luffenil entered the lobby, it was an entirely different world from the servant rooms. Velvet-lined couches were arranged with fresh copies of the latest Black Horse Courier set neatly on a glass table for guests to peruse, along with a bowl of fruit. Brocade curtains draped over the latticed windows and he walked softly on plush carpets.

Mistress Augusta Calidia was standing behind her circular desk, writing furiously in a ledger. The proprietress carried herself well in her middle age, her flaxen hair still as shining as ever, and she had the vigor of a much younger woman. Whenever Luffenil saw her she was always working, never sitting. He sometimes wondered if she ever slept. But she was more fair to the servants than Luffenil could ever ask for, though she was not a warm person by any means, save for the affability she reserved for their wealthy guests.

"Luffenil?"

As soon as she saw the Bosmer, her eyes instantly darted towards the front entrance. Then, she narrowed them at Luffenil and he could see the little wrinkles in her forehead crinkling.

She continued into a barrage of questions which seemed an awful lot like an interrogation instead of a simply inquiry about his day.

"What are you doing here? Are you not enjoying your day off?"

"Well, the Arena match is over, and I'm ready to work again," he said, shifting his weight uncomfortably, having the distinct feeling that he was not wanted here at all.

"No, no, that will not do. You've been working very hard lately and I wanted to recognize that. Take the rest of the day off. I'll even pay you a half-day's wages. Think of it like a small holiday. Just don't tell the others."

Yet she spoke brusquely, not in a complimentary tone at all, and she kept glancing at the door for no discernible reason. She would _pay_ him to stay downstairs? How very strange. Augusta Calidia was not in the habit of being kind for no reason at all.

Any other waiter might have taken the gold without question. But the situation was so bizarre that Luffenil could not help but be curious.

Suddenly, the double-doors burst open as if somebody had pushed through vigorously. A strong, jovial voice bounced across the walls, filling the entire lobby.

"Hello! I have a dinner reservation for two, under the name gro-Malog?"

That name...

Luffenil turned around slowly. The same state he had felt in the Arena seats, as if time itself had stopped returned. His pulse quickened.

Agronak gro-Malog, the Gray Prince, was standing... but a few paces away from him!

His eyes must have been wide as saucers.

He walked forward on gelatin legs. Luffenil couldn't see where he was going. Couldn't see anything besides the Grand Champion, his light green skin illuminated in soft daylight from the frosted windows. Nothing else mattered but the Gray Prince. His mouth was dry but he tried to speak.

"By Azura, you're-"

* * *

When Luffenil woke up, his mouth tasted like metal. He was lying on top of a bed, on his back. His head was throbbing and he wondered how long he had been asleep for. He couldn't remember anything that happened after he saw the Gray Prince. Had that all been a dream?

"So, how many units do I need to move here to conquer Hammerfell?"

Though the deep, sonorous voice was all the way in another room, Luffenil could hear it as clearly as if they were sitting next to him. That was the same voice the Gray Prince had in his dream!

Luffenil sat up quickly. Too quickly. His head swam but he didn't care. He was still dressed, that was a good thing. Only his shoes had been removed.

 _By Azura, by Azura, by Azura..._

"Oh! You're awake. You took a nasty blow to your head. Are you feeling alright?" the Arena Grand Champion said, turning his attention away from the game pieces for a moment. The orc had his hair in a slicked ponytail and he was _sitting right there._

Luffenil's mouth hung open. He couldn't speak.

"I don't think your boss liked it when we carried you down here."

That was some unfamiliar, accented female voice. Luffenil had not even noticed her when he first entered the kitchen, but there sat some Nord at the three-legged table, just across from Agronak gro-Malog. She had silvery hair and a hard nose – was she the Gray Lady?! What was she doing here?

But Agronak laughed a great amiable laugh, as if that were a perfectly normal thing to do when seated across from his nemesis. "Eh, she'll be fine. I'll... buy a lot of drinks, or something. They like it when we spend a lot of money, right?"

"Ehehe, no.. that's not quite how it works, Agronak. Ah, but I don't care. This is more fun," the wicked woman said. She didn't seem very evil up close, though. She seemed like... like any other lady of high standing, dressed in a dark blue evening gown, which was quite striking against her long braid of hair the color of starlight.

Luffenil noticed that Zulee-Tei and Doreleth had taken their usual seats at the table, too, as if this were any other round. They seemed absolutely unruffled at the idea of playing Tiber Wars with the Gray Prince and his wicked rival.

Agronak nodded in agreement to whatever the woman had just said. Luffenil had already forgotten.

"I'm glad you agree. Hmm, Katrin – you shouldn't put that many of your starting units in Skyrim. None of our generals are even close enough to attack it yet."

Katrin. Agronak had addressed the woman that had betrayed him as Katrin. And he was actually... _helping_ her with the game?

He then turned to look at Luffenil, who was trying to vocalize words with his mouth but could only make soft little gasps.

"Hey, you alright, kid? You were dead to the world but ten minutes ago. Ran into a wooden beam some folks were carrying by. Maybe you should sit down. C'mere, I'm sure there's an extra chair, uhh..."  
But Luffenil was having difficulty keeping his breathing steady. "What..." he said, his voice small at first. "What is _she_ doing here?" He pointed a trembling finger at Katrin, who tilted her head in confusion.

"What are you talking about? You know, _he's_ not really allowed to be down here either, but I don't see you complaining-" she started.

But Luffenil began to spit out words faster than he could think about them. "She's the enemy! You – she betrayed you! You just fought her in the arena! And now you're – now you're helping her to play the game, but watch – don't you know? She'll betray you in Tiber Wars, too!"

No one spoke. Even the pots and pans banging around in the kitchen seemed to quiet down a bit.

The Gray Prince and the Gray Lady turned to face each other.

"Are you going to tell him?"

Agronak smiled wryly.

"Ye gods, this is gonna hurt."

This was all like some terrible, bizarre dream and Luffenil wanted to wake up from it. The Gray Prince was here, but... he wasn't acting very much like the Grand Champion. Up close and out of his armor he was... entirely a normal person. He definitely didn't seem very princely.

The orc took a deep breath. "Look, you see this game here? Doreleth and... gods, I'm sorry, what's your name again?"

"Zulee-Tei."

"Right. You see, Doreleth and Zulee-Tei play Tiber Wars all the time. But they're still friends, even after they wage war and conquer each other's provinces every day."

"Friends? I suppose you could say that," Doreleth said dryly. Zulee-Tei was grinning. At least, it looked like she was.

Luffenil still didn't understand. He stared blankly.

"Erm... the Arena matches are... well, they're real, but... the stories, the rivalries that go along with them, we do that to please the crowds. We might fight in the Arena, and we can both get pretty competitive, but at the end of the day Katrin and I can go out for dinner like this and talk like old friends."

Luffenil took a step back.

"You mean... it's... all..."

But... people _died_ in the Arena! The stakes were that high! How could they be friends?!

He suddenly felt sick. He gripped the wall for support.

None of this was... real?

Now Doreleth spoke up, but her voice sounded cruel and distant.

"Wait... you honestly believed all that play-acting? We thought you only were getting worked up about the Arena nonsense like how Thaddeus got worked up when he read those Barenziah stories."

People were laughing.

Stories. Play-acting.

Luffenil turned away, because he could feel that he was about to cry, and he didn't want the others to see him cry because they already treated him like a child.

"C'mon, don't be so harsh on him. He's just a kid," Agronak said. The Grand Champion was... _pitying_ him.

"He's insufferable, is what you mean. He never stops talking about the Gray Prince this, or the Grand Champion that. Gods forbid you're a real person," Doreleth said primly. She'd always been blunt like that, but now her words hurt more than ever.

Everyone was laughing at him.

Luffenil got out of there. He ran all the way back to the sleeping quarters and flopped onto his bed, burying his face into his pillow.

He didn't want to have to face the others again. They were still laughing, everyone except the Gray Prince, and he heard a chair scraping the floor.

"I'm going to see if he's alright."

 _No._ This was absolutely humiliating! The Grand Champion had to see him like... like _this._ After everyone had made fun of him.

By Azura, this was the _worst_ day of his life.

"Hey, uhh, can I come in? There's no door for me to knock on."

Agronak still rapped his fist twice on the door frame.

"Guess you don't have any privacy here. It's like how they treat the fresh meat at the Arena. They cram them all in one room with a bunch of cots. At least someone probably didn't throw up in your sheets. Oh, uh, I can leave if you want me to."

Luffenil said nothing. He did not lift his head to even look at him. How could he face the Gray Prince when his face was a red, tear-stained mess and his nose was running?

Agronak just continued to speak. Luffenil heard the orc sitting down on the bed across from him.

"You know, it's always been strange. When I started fighting in the Arena, I had no idea that people – young people, children – were going to be looking up to me, as if I'm some sort of hero. The truth is, I just fight people for sport, and I happen to be really good at it. There's nothing heroic about it, but that's one of the reasons why I developed this character, the Gray Prince. Someone who was dignified and courteous, fair, always just, who would defeat the villains but spare their lives; someone to really aspire to be like, so that the kids weren't just admiring some killer. But I'm not really a prince."

"No – but, but aren't you of noble blood?" Luffenil finally interjected. His words were muffled by the pillow he was burying his face deeper into.

Agronak laughed again. He had such a nice, deep laugh that made Luffenil feel a little warm in his chest. He didn't really know why.

"Aye, well. That's what my ma told me. She never talked about pa much, but it's part of the story that has a grain of truth. But even I'm not sure how much of it I believe."

"Do you know who your father is?" Luffenil asked, still muffled.

"Nah. I know _where_ he is. He's got a castle somewhere near Anvil. I've never been."

"Why not?"

"Alright – can you actually remove your face from the pillow if you're gonna speak? I can't take you seriously like that."

Luffenil lifted his head, wiping his nose. There were wet splotches all over the pillowcase. He still was having a hard time looking at Agronak's face, so he just sat up and looked down at their feet. Luffenil was wearing black socks. Agronak's boots had a fresh layer of polish.

It was difficult to believe that the Gray Prince was sitting on the bed across from him, confiding all of this to him.

… Yet, at the same time, Luffenil was wondering if the Gray Prince and Agronak gro-Malog were really the same person. The half-orc sitting across from him seemed like someone he might meet at the market. He was acting very... ordinary. But he was still the Gray Prince, no matter what he said! He was probably just trying to be modest.

"Right. So, I'm not sure why I'm even telling you all of this. I know it must be hard for you to think that the person you've admired for so long is actually a common sort pretending to be a prince. I think I know how you feel, though. Let me tell you something. Fighting's something I've always been good at. No one ever said I was smart, but I've never lost a fight. I've never been scared for a moment when I was in the Arena. I'm not proud of some of the things I've done, but you can't say I was afraid to do them. But... gods, can't believe I'm even saying this. I'm afraid to face my father. After my ma passed, there was nothing stopping me from finding him, claiming my own destiny. By Oblivion, it's ridiculous, but I'd make up excuses for why I never went myself, even though I had the key and everything I needed as proof I was his son. I'd say that I was too busy with my training. That this would break my contract with the Arena. That's not really true. You want to know why I've never been able to go?"

"Why?" Luffenil could feel the tears welling up again. He swallowed. All of this still felt like one terrible joke. The Gray Prince was confident and perfect in every way. How could he even be capable of insecurity?

"I'm afraid that I'm going to be crushed. I guess... in a way, I'm afraid that when I meet my father, the experience will end up nothing like the way I want it to be, or how I'd dreamed it. All my life it was the only thing I ever had to look forward to. Meeting my father, and claiming my rightful place. But what if it's not at all like I'd expected? I'd be devastated... how you might be feeling right now. After you learned about me, and the Arena stories. All of this really meant something to you, didn't it? It was _real_ to you. And now – now there's nothing left here for you to admire."

" _No!_ You're the Grand Champion! I'd still do anything for the Gray Prince!"

There was silence again. And then the orc chuckled. But this time, his laughter seemed bitter, sad. Not strong and boisterous like the Gray Prince at all.

Luffenil felt... empty. That was the best word to describe what he was feeling. But a heavy hand clamped his shoulder, nearly knocking the light-framed Bosmer over.

"What if Agronak asks you for help?"


	10. Jeelius

**Imperial City, Temple of the One**

 **29 Hearthfire, 3E 433**

 **8:05 AM**

Jeelius had two bodies in the preparation room.

They had been delivered to the priest of Arkay the night before, and he had been told not to tell anyone about the case.

Such a request was already bizarre when they already knew the culprit. A Redguard woman, rumored to be the one known only to the public as the Hero of Kvatch, had been taken into custody. She was released shortly after. No one knew much at all about what had happened, and no one was allowed to talk about it. Neither reason stopped anyone from spreading rumors.

Apparently, even the Blades were involved, if the guard that had delivered the corpses had not been embellishing his story. The Argonian was certain this was related to the Emperor's murder a month earlier. But it was not Jeelius' place to ponder such things. He was merely a priest of Arkay, and his job was to clean and examine the bodies and report anything interesting to the city watch.

The first of the deceased was a Breton male by the name of Astav Wirich, pale and liver spotted in his late middle age, with gloomy, drooping jowls. Slightly underweight, but not emaciated. Quiet, retired. Spent most of his days reading in the common area at the boarding house owned by Luther Broad. No one claimed him to be a friend, yet people were familiar enough with him to identify the body. Even Jeelius had spoken to him once or twice while on an errand at Luther Broad's place, but he couldn't remember anything distinct about his personality. He had been a decidedly unremarkable, forgettable sort, not the type at all to be involved in something like this. One penetrating wound in the chest had lacerated his aorta, killing him neatly.

The other corpse belonged to a high elf male in crimson robes. Unidentified. Unclaimed. With flawless golden skin now pale too in death, his age was a mystery; he might have been an ambitious young journeyman at the Arcane University, or a wizened professor. There was no way for Jeelius to tell. Displaying visible signs of age seemed to be optional for most elves. What he could surmise was that the elf's body was well-nourished and appeared altogether healthy. Aside from being dead, of course.

The Altmer's death had been far messier than the old Breton's, and therefore the body took longer for Jeelius to clean and stitch. Several lacerations had been slashed across his chest and abdomen, and the hands were covered in burns where the fabric from the gloves had grafted onto his skin. There was a ring-shaped burn around the index finger of the elf's left hand, but someone had already removed the offending piece of jewelry.

Jeelius stared at his notes as if some great revelation would be hidden between his crossed-out sentences and cramped margin notes.

Two bodies.

How could he report anything of note to the city watch if they wouldn't tell him what he should be looking for? A month ago, he had been summoned to the very location where the Emperor had been murdered, and he still understood nothing. The Blades had a habit of confiscating pertinent evidence.

The Argonian sighed. He'd been working at it long enough. He needed some fresh air, air that didn't smell of burnt flesh.

The Temple District was still asleep, though the birds were already chirping. Occasionally Jeelius would hear a horse cantering in the distance, but the usual chapel-goers would not be walking the streets for another hour. That gave him enough time to think. It was unfortunate that the weather grew colder with the passing of each day. His kind were not suited for the harsh winters of Cyrodiil, but he knew he would receive a chillier reception than all the winds in Frostfall if he were to return to the swamp where his parents had been hatched. He would never be truly welcome in Cyrodiil for being an Argonian, and he would never be accepted as kin by the other Argonians for being too much like an Imperial.

Perhaps solitude suited Jeelius. Though, he was never truly alone. Arkay always walked beside him, even if he could not see him. And while the other priests and priestesses were friendly enough, there were many things they could not understand about him, and many things he could not understand about them. Jeelius had been raised in the Imperial fashion, but it was impossible for him to deny the Hist when he felt it every day, faintly pulsing like a heartbeat, no matter how far it may have been.

Footsteps. Behind him. Perhaps a lost traveler.

Jeelius started to turn around. "Can I help you with anything?"

 _Crack._

Everything went dark.

 **Lake Arrius Caverns**

Jeelius might have been dreaming. Everything was dark and he could not move his arms or legs, for they had been bound by thick rope.

No, he knew this was no nightmare, as much as he wished it to be one.

This place was warm and damp. He may have liked the ambiance if his life were not in mortal peril. Unfamiliar voices echoed across the cavern walls. One male, sniveling and cringing, and one female, who sounded as if she were one misstep away from murdering him.

"Lady Ruma, with... with all due respect, you mustn't allow hatred to cloud your judgment. Do not speak such blasphemies! The master's orders are clear, and I intend to carry them out. Imagine... the wealth of intelligence the pawn could provide us!"

"No, you fool!" the female spat. "I'm the only one here with a lick of sense! Yes, I know that my father says that the catspaw's loyalty is superficial, and he believes that she could become a powerful ally. I won't deny that this may be true. But this is the present, not father's rhetorical future, and she is still a powerful _enemy!_ Look at what she did to my brother!I say we spill _her_ red-drink on Lord Dagon's altar. Eliminate her swiftly, before she becomes important enough to be a martyr."

"That... may be more difficult than you might imagine. She-"

"Closed an Oblivion Gate and rescued the Heir. What of it? If that useless tool Eldamil hadn't gotten his head bashed in, Kvatch would have been a different story. Watch, I'll kill her with my own hands if sycophants like you are too afraid."

"Lady Ruma, please understand that you have my utmost respect, but I must defer to your father above all but Prince Dagon himself. I only ask for patience. When the agent arrives, we will confiscate her possessions. Our trusted contact at Weynon Priory tells us that she cannot cast a single spell. Unarmed and unarmored, she poses no threat to the sanctuary when we grossly outnumber her. We will take her to the shrine, and we will perform the initiation ritual. If she denies Dagon the red-drink, you may yet satisfy your own personal vengeance, and spill her blood upon the altar. Until then, we must continue with this ruse. It is absolutely critical that the Blades believe they have the upper hand."

The female scoffed.

"Hmph. We'll see what happens then, shall we? Ah, but Harrow, it is time for you to prepare the sacrifice. Our guest should be arriving shortly."

"It will be done, mistress."

Footsteps drew closer.

Jeelius realized that _he_ was the sacrifice. He chose to remain limp, as if he were still asleep.

He was carried to another room and rudely tossed into a basin.

The Argonian was stripped of his robes and scrubbed with a gritty soap. The male that was handling him, this Harrow, was a burly dark elf that smelled faintly of ash and rotten eggs. Though he had allegorically prostrated himself in front of his beloved and terrible mistress, he certainly was not being so careful with the Argonian. Probably because Jeelius was the one with his arms and legs bound, and his father was not the leader of a Daedric cult. He wondered if Harrow truly despised Lady Ruma or if he really did enjoy being bullied.

At some point Jeelius thought it must be peculiar that he was able to muse about these silly things rather than panic over his imminent death. He knew he was supposed to be crying or maybe pleading right about now. But he could only think that the cool water actually felt pleasant against his scales. Even Harrow mercilessly scrubbing away the scurf was invigorating in a certain way. He wondered if Tandilwe at the Temple missed him yet. And how much time he had lost. He was a bit hungry.

Some time later, a Khajiit arrived to whisper something in Harrow's ear. Harrow grabbed Jeelius' arms and the Khajiit grabbed his legs. The two carried him into a cavernous chamber. The air was musky with incense.

At least twenty somber cultists dressed in crimson robes stood waiting, all facing the same direction.

Jeelius was too frightened to even mouth a prayer to Arkay. Hopefully the Divines could still hear him begging for deliverance within his own head.

An Altmer male wearing blue robes and a gaudy red pendant addressed the enraptured crowd high up from his dais, speaking in a bizarre language both sibilant and guttural. A tongue whose words Jeelius could not repeat. Not because they were terrible blasphemies, but because he was incapable of producing those sounds.

Was it truly part of the gods' plan for him to die in this wretched place?

Jeelius must have passed out again, for when he opened his eyes again he was laying on his back. Just above him were the stone legs of a colossal statue. He groaned as she shifted to his side.

The sacrificial altar he laid on was on the same raised platform of the Altmer addressing the crowd. The elf's back was facing Jeelius.

And he was speaking intelligible words this time.

" _Praise be! The Dragon Throne is empty, and we hold the Amulet of Kings!"_

A female elf standing beside the speaker turned around to face Jeelius. His heart nearly stopped. This must have been Ruma, the daughter. Her thin lips twisted into a predatory smirk. Jeelius was a nothing; an object on the altar, a sacrifice. But then, why was she looking at him like that?

There was something unfathomable about her citron eyes, that acid stare. The blue-robed Altmer was still delivering his speech, yet he could not concentrate. Even when Ruma looked away Jeelius' mind was reeling.

Finally, the speaker raised his arms for one last theatrical proclamation.

" _...I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of the Dawn!"_

There was a blinding flash of light. Jeelius couldn't see anything.

When his vision cleared, the speaker was gone.

Only a book rested on the podium.

The magicka that lingered in the air had the same rotten-egg stench he had detected on Harrow's robes.

Ruma pushed her way through the crowd, having targeted her new prey. A young Redguard woman, wearing the same hooded crimson robes as everyone else. Ruma dragged her by the collar, up the steps of the raised platform. Jeelius felt a shiver all along his body. It was happening. He could hardly believe it but it was happening. He was going to die here. He was really going to die.

Ruma explained something to the initiate about red-drink, the blood of Dagon's enemies. Jeelius was barely listening. The younger woman was given a ceremonial silver knife which she held curiously, as if she had never held a dagger before.

Ruma, however, was not amused. She roughly pushed the Redguard towards the sacrificial altar. Towards Jeelius.

"Lord Dagon thirsts for red-drink. Sate him," she demanded.

Jeelius did not make eye contact with the Redguard woman. If he was going to die by someone's hand tonight, it would be better if it was by hers. That way, she might live to... infiltrate the ranks of this cult, and... provide invaluable information on... things, and this was why Jeelius' calling was not espionage but he at least understood that it was better if she killed him, rather than the both of them dying here to sate Mehrunes Dagon with their "red-drink."

Still, even after having to observe the uncomfortable truth of Death every day with his line of work, Jeelius did not believe he was ready to face it himself.

At least, not here. Not now.

Certainly his body would not receive the rites of Arkay. Were he analyzing this in the comfort of his own home, he may have thought to feel sad about this.

But he didn't even care about his empty shell being defiled in the worst kind of ways that Arkay abhorred.

He just didn't want to die.

The woman raised the silver blade. Its sharpened edge reflected the flames from a nearby brazier.

From behind, Ruma leaned close to the initiate, her chin nearly resting on her shoulder.

"Oh, but it makes little difference whose blood Lord Dagon drinks tonight, my sweet."

The Redguard shrugged herself away from Ruma.

Raised her arm higher, about to strike.

She whirled around.

Plunged the dagger in Ruma's citron eye before Jeelius could blink.

The Altmer stepped backwards and fell, sputtering, shouting agonized strings of syllables that caught in her throat, arms flailing wildly.

Everyone began to move at once. The chamber had become a sea of crimson.

Twenty pairs of hands prepared twenty spells. The Redguard crouched behind the podium with her hands over her head, and the stone absorbed the magic aimed at her.

Jeelius had never seen so many fireballs in one place. Momentarily, the cave was bright as day.

Ruma had already stopped screaming.

Jeelius finally made eye contact with the Redguard woman as she pried the dagger from Ruma's face and tossed it in his direction.

The knife landed perfectly on the slab. There was still some blood on it. Ruma's blood. He held it between his wrists and began to saw away at the rope that bound him.

Four of the cultists – two on each side – clambered up the stairs to the dais. The woman leaped to her feet and kicked the brazier on the left behind her.

Charcoal and ashes flew at their faces. They shrieked and fell back, momentarily blind.

The other two on the right side were closing in fast on the Redguard.

She ducked to avoid another fireball flying towards her head. She was doing something with her hands. The dim lighting and smoke in the air made it difficult for Jeelius to see, but it looked like she had a cord wrapped around her right hand attached to something clenched inside her fist.

Harrow's hands glowed orange as he prepared a spell.

The stranger released her hold, spinning a cylindrical object about the size of a small weight, of the sort found with a shopkeeper's scale. It was attached to a length of cord, which she held at half-length as she spun the weight.

She kicked up with her leg to direct the object towards Harrow.

There was a crack when it made contact with the mer's head, and he collapsed.

The fire in his hands faded before he could even unleash any flames.

The woman took a second to glance behind her, yanking the cord backwards over her shoulder at a mace-wielder about to strike. It hit him on his unprotected collarbone. He dropped the mace and it vanished into wisps of magicka, back to Oblivion.

Jeelius worked faster on his bindings. The rope was beginning to fray.

A burly Nord with an enormous hammer blocked her other side.

Bringing the weight back from the last attack, the Redguard woman swung her arm upwards, knocking him in the chin, disabling him momentarily. He screamed. Bones had broken. Jeelius could _hear_ the crack.

A female cultist standing behind Harrow's body blasted the Redguard at close range with a frost spell. It hit her square in the chest.

The Redguard reacted as if she had been punched. She gasped for air, staggering forward hunched over.

" _Get the Xarxes!"_ the cultist shouted.

This had caught the Redguard's attention. She perked up and bounded towards the podium, narrowly avoiding a lightning bolt and a fireball along the way.

When Jeelius' hands were free he swiftly cut the rope that tied his legs. He rolled off the sacrificial altar just as the Redguard woman grabbed the book.

The ground beneath them trembled.

An earthquake?! Now? Or... a cave-in?

The Redguard woman pushed Jeelius off the dais and took cover with him, crouching down with their hands over their heads and their faces close to the floor. They both had scrapes from the fall. Jeelius healed her first. Her teeth were still chattering, likely from that frost magic.

Stone crumbled behind them and some people were screaming. Everything was gray and dusty and chaotic and Jeelius couldn't see what was happening.

"Thanks, uh..." his words were raspy and his head was swimming.

"I'm Mona," she said loudly, over all the noise.

"Jeelius," he replied. "Do you, uh... do you know what you're doing?"

"Something very dangerous, I imagine. Can you walk?"

"I think, yes."

"Stay close to me if you want to live," Mona said. She hugged the book to her chest.

Well, that had been what Jeelius was planning on doing, anyway.

When the quake finally stilled, both were coughing from the gray dust. At least two crimson-robed cultists that he could see were partially buried by the rubble, and several more had sustained injuries from flying debris.

Jeelius picked up a gnarled staff from the ground. It looked like the one Ruma had been carrying. Well, it was his, now.

Somehow, after Mona had grabbed the book, the others had ceased flinging spells at her and were now attempting to engage her at close range.

And Mona still had that strange weapon. She flung it again, using her leg for momentum, directing the weight towards her next potential attacker.

It hit the assailant straight in the chest, knocking the wind out of them.

Jeelius did not know if he should be impressed by her skill with an unconventional weapon, or concerned for her sanity, if she expected to be able to take down an entire room of cultists with just a weight on a string.

"Get the key from the dark elf," she called to Jeelius. It took him a few seconds to realize that she was talking about Harrow. He climbed back onto the dais and rummaged through the pockets until he found something thin and metal.

Out in the open like this, he couldn't help but feel nervous. Thankfully, he wasn't exactly a priority target right now, and all of their attention was on finding Mona, who was already running towards the wooden gate.

In all of the confusion, it seemed as if the others had lost sight of her. She was wearing the same red robes as them, after all. But when Jeelius ran after her, a cultist raised his arm up, conjuring twisted black armor all around himself. He brandished an ebon-black mace and charged towards Mona.

Jeelius pointed the staff at the black-masked horror. A focused beam of electricity shot out from the tip, and Jeelius continued to shock the cultist until he fell, the armor and mace vanishing when he hit the floor.

He just killed someone. By the gods, he had actually killed someone.

The chamber they were in was an atrium of sorts, with multiple exits in every direction. Mona knew where she was going, or at least she looked like she knew where she was going, and Jeelius followed her.

They stopped in front of a locked iron gate. That was probably what the key was for. Mona was busy right now, and she couldn't exactly tell him.

His hands were shaking as he tried to unlock the gate. There was another explosion-sound and he dropped the key.

Why had the Divines cursed him with this incompetence? He couldn't see anything on the ground. Fumbling blindly for the key with his hand, he could still pay attention to the fight in front of him. He hoped she would be able to hold them off long enough for him to open the gate.

Mona faced another cultist with the shadowy conjured armor. They looked like ebon statues, not like people at all. She flung her brass weight at their chest, but it only bounced off the cuirass with a _tink_.

When she caught the weight, she gripped the cord at half-length and swung the end around like the arms of a windmill. It coiled around the shaft of the mace and she pulled it towards her. The cultist, still clutching the weapon, was dragged along with it, but he pulled a dagger with his free hand and cut the cord.

It unwrapped itself from the mace and the weight dropped uselessly to the ground.

Mona stepped backwards and turned her rear foot, pulling the remaining cord taut. Two others moved in on her.

There were three cultists trying to kill her.

One slashed at her with a dagger. Mona caught the attack with the length of cord she now held in front of her. She jerked her arms upward to knock his knife out of the way and punched him in the face. As he recoiled, blood dripping from his nose, Mona had the rope around his neck. She held it tight, and twisted herself behind him, lifting the man with a grunt and throwing him down to the ground over her shoulder. The knife clattered when it hit the stone below and Mona cringed. There was no time for her to pick it up, for she still had to deal with the other two.

One wisely stood several paces away, readying a spell in their hands. The other was engaging Mona in melee range. Jeelius held on to the staff, but he barely knew how to use this thing, and he didn't want to accidentally hurt her.

Jeelius couldn't really see what was going on with Mona and the cultist, but she had latched onto his mace-arm with both of her hands. She wrested his arm towards her and he screamed when the bone cracked. But when the conjured mace left its owner's hands, it vanished before it could hit the floor. Such was expected, when it came to summoned weapons, but she seemed a bit surprised at this.

She relinquished her hold on his arm, and brought her elbow up to hit him in the side of his head. He crumbled to the ground, and didn't look like he was going to be getting up for a while.

"Look out!" Jeelius cried as the distant spellcaster launched a fireball in Mona's direction. It gleaned her left arm just as she dove to the ground.

The Redguard woman cried out in pain as the sleeve of her robe burned away, but she rolled to the side and managed to grab the fallen dagger with her right hand.

She readied the knife with the hilt just beside her ear and she tossed it in the direction of the spellcaster, the flames of their spell quite nicely illuminating their position. The knife must have hit, for the fire was quickly extinguished mid-cast.

The assailant with the broken nose was advancing on her. Mona pushed herself up and grabbed the haft of his mace. She kneed him in the groin.

The man's legs buckled. As he doubled over, Mona wrapped her arm over his neck.

She gave it a sharp yank.

 _Crack._

Jeelius shuddered.

Mona pulled away just as Jeelius opened the gate. The first thing she did was reach for the book that she had dropped during the struggle.

Her breathing was ragged and she clutched the wall for support as they descended into the absolute darkness. She just didn't stop moving.

Who _was_ she?

"Why weren't they casting spells at you when you had the book?" Jeelius asked, trailing after, trying to heal her burns as she strode through the cave. People were shouting things in the distance, searching for them, but it was so dark that they could hardly see what was in front of them.

"It's called the Mysterium Xarxes."

They made their way through the tunnel with no torchlight to aid them. She hurried to explain between gasps of air.

"They're obsessed with this thing. Erm... I'm not sure _what_ I saw, but I think their leader opened a portal... and went inside of the book. They can't risk destroying it. So, if I'm holding the book... I'm, uh, well, at least I'm _hoping_ they won't risk destroying it."

Though they were fumbling in the dark, Jeelius did not dare cast a light spell. The others seemed to have lost track of them by now. The frantic voices continued behind them. These caves were more sprawling than Jeelius had thought.

There were a few candles on the wall, and that was it. Jeelius stared at the back of her head as he followed her. The scarlet hood had lowered in the scuffle, revealing a close-cropped head of wiry black hair.

"Are you the Hero of Kvatch?" he asked. The answer seemed obvious now, but he wanted confirmation.

"Dammit. I don't know where they took my sword," Mona whispered, pointedly ignoring his question. Jeelius cast a dim light spell for a brief moment. They were in some kind of storage area, with barrels and chests all around. Mona rushed in the direction of a chest that Jeelius' spell had illuminated. He cast the light again so that she could see the contents and not accidentally cut herself on a blade or something.

"Let's see..."

She was already shoving potions into the pockets of her robe.

Then, she pulled out a sword belt and began to tie it around her waist. She unsheathed the longsword and examined its edge, allowing it to catch the light of Jeelius' spell.

"Found it already?" he asked.

"No. But it's close enough," she said, keeping it in her right hand.

Jeelius followed her footsteps down another tunnel.

At the end, two cultists stood in the other room, carrying torches.

"... killed Ruma and stole the Xarxes-"

"No! Impossible! How could you allow such a thing to happen?"

"Everything happened so fast – the statue, it, it collapsed, we could hardly breathe-"

"I don't have time for your excuses, Demetrius. How many are left?"

"I – I don't know, I think they killed her at the sanctuary, but she had this weapon-"

"She's _one_ person, Demetrius!"

"W-well, the Argonian was with her."

"The _sacrifice?_ You're telling me, that the _sacrifice_ is giving you trouble? Unbelievable. I ought to-"

He never had a chance to elaborate on just what he ought to do, because Mona stabbed him through the back. He made a " _Guurraaarrghh_ " sort of sound. The other cultist, Demetrius, dropped his torch and fled, sobbing.

Mona shoved the Mysterium Xarxes at Jeelius.

He stood there a moment, staring down at the cover of the book. The Daedric character warped and he suddenly feelt faint. Spots clouded his vision and he leaned against the wall. He was wearing nothing but a loincloth and the stone felt cold against his scales. He shuddered.

A hand came down on his shoulder.

"You alright?" Mona asked.

Jeelius swallowed.

"I think... uhh, yes..."

He cast a spell to restore his fatigue. He was trembling, but he finally took the book in his hands.

Several footsteps were pounding in their direction. Apparently Demetrius had called for reinforcements.

Mona brought one foot in front of the other and bent her knee forward.

She smirked through gritted teeth.

"Sorry about the mess back there," the Redguard said, tightening her grip on the longsword. Shouts echoed down the halls. They were coming. Fast. "This will be a lot cleaner."


	11. Vicente Valtieri

**Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary**

 **1 Frostfall, 3E 433**

 **11:55 AM**

Patience.

That was one quality that Vicente Valtieri could claim to possess. For what did a vampire of his maturity have, if not an abundance of time?

Yet in all of the two hundred years he had resided in the Cheydinhal sanctuary, out of every single family member he'd been acquainted with, the number he predicted to be well in the thousands, none had such an incredible salacity to provoke his vexation as Antoinetta Marie.

She sauntered into his chambers with a languid sashay, deliberately exuding what appeared to be an unintentional, innocent sensuality, like a vestal lass in a certain Lythandas painting with her back turned, wandering through a meadow of foxglove. Three lifetimes ago, Vicente may have been entranced by Antoinetta's alluring naïvety, thoroughly overcome by an intense desire to protect such a fragile maiden from harm.

But his youthful passion had long since quelled, and the vampire knew that she did indeed spend time wandering in meadows picking flowers – to use in deadly poisons, and that there was nothing childlike about the glacial stare when she fixed her lovely blue eyes on him, an icy detachment well beyond her years.

"You wanted to speak with me?" she asked with a measured timidity. Her wheat-colored hair framed her small face in ringlets.

Vicente smiled affably.

"How does the day greet you?"

"Fine... and you?"

"Ah, I can't complain, myself. Please, Sister. You mustn't look so frightened. This isn't an interrogation. I only wish to speak with you. Have a seat. Do you care for tea?"

Antoinetta frowned. She lowered herself in the seat across from him, settling her hands in her lap primly. If she was uncomfortable at all, she did not reveal it.

"Vampires drink tea?"

"No, not typically." Vicente chuckled at the forwardness of her question. Most skirted the topic of his vampirism entirely, save for the morbidly curious. "Though, some may, when hiding in plain sight amongst mortals. I may be a vampire, but that's hardly an excuse for me to be a sorry host."

"Well, aren't you a proper gentleman?" she said coyly. "I take two sugars with mine, please."

"Two?" Vicente arched an eyebrow.

Antoinetta smiled. "I like it sweet."

He poured the tea into a light green cup and placed it on a saucer in front of her, stirring in two lumps of sugar.

She slowly brought the teacup to her lips, never taking a sip.

Of course she didn't trust him. He didn't need to bother with the tea to know that. Antoinetta Marie didn't trust anyone, but she pranced about as if she loved everyone.

"Now, then. Perhaps you are wondering why I wished to converse with you. But I have the impression that you know precisely why. We are adults, of course, and instead of resorting to petty snipes, we ought to discuss it like adults."

"Adults? Ah... funny you say that," Antoinetta sat on her hands, bringing her knobby knees together. "To tell you the truth, I don't turn seventeen until Sun's Dusk. I've been told that I'm precocious for my age, though."

Precocious. Antoinetta was beyond precocious. The girl was positively cunning.

"I'm reluctant to call a professional killer a child, no matter their age," Vicente remarked dryly.

Antoinetta looked down at her tea.

"No, I suppose you're right," she said in that tinny little voice.

She brought the teacup to her nose and sniffed lightly. Her eyes flitted up at Vicente.

"Do you remember being a child?" she suddenly asked.

What a bizarre question. Did she intend to disarm him with nothing but a change of subject? He was certainly confused, seeing as his own childhood was absolutely irrelevant to the conversation at hand.

"Of course. I'm old, but not forgetful."

"Do you remember when you stopped being a child?" she pressed, setting the teacup down with a _tink_.

"Certainly I was an adult by the time I left my parents' manor in Wayrest. But that was centuries ago. Why do you ask?"

Antoinetta stared into her cup again.

"I don't know. I begin to wonder if I ever was a child. I don't feel different now than I did eight years ago, except I know more things, and I'm happier, I think." She paused, and ran a finger along the rim of her teacup. "Oh, but it doesn't matter. I'm only being silly. Forget I ever said a word. I did not know you were from Wayrest. I think that's grand. You know, I've never been to High Rock, even though I'm a Breton. Did you like it there?"

She smiled thinly. Vicente watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. This had been an odd interlude, but he was not about to allow her to distract him from the pertinence of the matter at hand.

"I was fond enough of Wayrest, yes. But please remember, Sister, I didn't summon you so that I could discuss my childhood. If you truly are so interested in hearing an old vampire reminisce, you may approach me at a later time. I'd be glad to talk at length, but not now."

"I'd like that very much. I love hearing people's stories, especially from faraway places," she said, clasping her hands together. "Telaendril told me about Valenwood. She grew up in this great hollowed-out tree, and the tree _walked!_ It must be wretched for the couriers to find _anyone_ , when their homes keep uprooting themselves."

Vicente sighed. This conversation was going nowhere. Truly, it was like speaking with a child. An uncommonly astute and manipulative child.

He observed her hands, still clasped together.

Her fingers were skeletal, the skin so translucently pale that he could see the blue veins running along the back of her hands. Her recovery was going well, but she was still far from looking healthy.

Vicente remembered the day Lucien brought Antoinetta to the Sanctuary but two months ago. She was emaciated, dead-eyed, wandering the halls like a ghost. The others would whisper, questioning why Lucien would bring such a weak creature into the family, only to find her standing behind them, listening to every word with an unchanging expression.

Though she was mostly the ebullient girl with wondrous eyes that sat in front of Vicente now, she sometimes still drifted into that vague, emotionless state. As if she were retreating inside of herself when the world became too much for her to bear.

But Vicente saw endless potential in her, as Lucien undoubtedly had.

The vampire remembered when Lucien Lachance himself had been brought to the sanctuary, too, almost thirty years ago. A disturbed youth with a black eye and a terrible hatred festering in his heart. Vicente taught Lucien to control his rage, to channel it into ambition, and the choleric boy with a rusty shiv had matured to become a Speaker of the Black Hand.

Antoinetta... she was elusive. Vicente could not make any sense of the girl. She was a moth that fluttered away whenever he attempted to pin her down. None would deny that she was trying – no, 'trying' was putting it kindly; most would call her infuriating, but more than anything Vicente wanted to understand her. And more than anything, she did not want to be understood.

Yet there was only so much patience he could have for an individual with such an enthusiastic disregard for his safety. There was no way he could undo whatever terrible things had been done to her to cause her to feel this way, but that was no excuse to behave like that with family. What if someone had attacked the Sanctuary, and he could not defend it to the best of his abilities because the scent of garlic lingering in the air had weakened his senses?

"Garlic," he said abruptly. Her smile faded. "Why do you continue to antagonize me so? You concoct vile dishes, and the stench reaches me all the way down here. But you _know_ this already. I've chided you repeatedly; even Ocheeva has scolded you. Why, Sister?"

"Garlic?" Antoinetta's eyes widened. "Well, I... I don't know. I don't like the smell of seared slaughterfish, but if I ever became testy with M'raaj-Dar when he cooks breakfast, I'd be laughed out of the Sanctuary."

She had begun to stir her tea again for no reason. Then, she tilted her head at him coyly: "Besides, I thought it was just a myth, the ordeal with vampires and garlic."

"It is," Vicente confirmed quickly. "But it's nothing to do with my vampirism. It's strange, I know... but to me, garlic is the same as poison. I have told you time and again. Have you ever eaten spoiled food that made you so ill you had to lay in bed with a basin at hand the entire day?"

Antoinetta was avoiding his eyes. She stared down at her lap, where she was fidgeting with her thumbs.

"Yes, but I-"

He interrupted her before she could formulate another excuse.

"Antoinetta. You are not a fool. You only endanger yourself with this behavior." He leaned across the table, staring at her with the unflinching gaze he normally reserved for his prey. It had been a few days since he had last fed, and his candlelit visage was already gaunt, his eyes blood-red and hungry. Antoinetta glanced up for a moment before looking down again, trembling slightly. She clutched the fabric of her trousers. Goosebumps had sprouted along her arms.

His calm countenance did not falter; it shifted to take on dangerous undertones, the cold inhumanity that always lurked beneath his pleasantries and smiles. And Vicente was no longer smiling.

"You are trifling with an ancient vampire far deadlier than anyone else in the Sanctuary. I hear your little heart beating faster now than it was before. As it should be. You should be afraid of what I am capable of. This morning you dropped an empty vial in the common area. I could hear it shatter, and I could smell your fresh, young blood when you pricked your finger on the shards of broken glass." Vicente's sentences were sharp and penetrating, and he did not relent. "You are clever enough to manipulate the sympathetic or the depraved with your infantile presentation. You've killed many people that way. But, dear Sister, that's the only way you _can_ fight. To me you are just as fragile and vulnerable as the child you present yourself as. Do not assume I am a fool like one of your marks. I am neither soft nor sadistic; I am a hunter, and you are nothing but a warm body without your pretenses. You have every reason to fear my wrath, and instead you tempt it."

Antoinetta swallowed. She was making odd noises in her throat, desperately trying not to cry. Her eyes darting to every direction possible except at him.

Her breath was caught in her throat. Of course, if she inhaled, she would sob, and she didn't want to do that in front of him, no. Even though she had made it painfully obvious that she was genuinely on the verge of tears.

Vicente sighed. He slid a handkerchief in her direction. Antoinetta only stared at it as if it were a spider.

"It didn't have to come to this," he said.

The girl scrunched her face up.

"Please do remember to breathe," he added.

Antoinetta took several short, choked breaths and tears glistened down her cheeks.

"I'm not angry with you, Antoinetta. I only wish to understand."

"Understand _what?_ " she snapped. "Understand why I _hate_ you?"

Hate.

In the outside world, Vicente was a monster, of course. Most sensible people had a healthy hatred of him when they knew what he was. But not here, not to the Brotherhood. He wondered what he might have done in the Sanctuary to inspire _hatred_ from anyone in the family.

But almost immediately after she said it, Antoinetta frantically attempted to backtrack.

"N-no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it-" she hiccuped.

Vicente folded his hands in his lap. "What did you mean, then?"

All at once her demeanor began to change. She took several deep breaths, then lowered her head. Her hair blocked her face like wavy blonde curtains. She was no longer crying, and her voice had taken on a dull monotone.

"It's _you_ I don't understand, Vicente Valtieri. What do you _want_ from me? I've said all these horrible things to you, and I've done horrible things, because of what the others said-"

"Others? Someone else in the family?" Vicente ventured. Antoinetta was not making any sense.

"No, you don't hear what I hear. I thought you'd reveal your true self by now. And you keep smiling, and speaking so soft and gentle like a knight in a stage-play, but it's not real. It can't be genuine. You are a murderer. We're not nice people."

"Antoinetta..." Vicente had his elbow on the table and he rested his chin on the palm of his hand. "I've lived for a long time. If ever I want something, I simply take it. Putting up a front is exhausting; I'm too old and tired for that rot."

Antoinetta stared at him. Her eyes were cut glass.

Vicente continued. "Ah, but there _is_ something I want from you. I do want you to stop bringing garlic to the Sanctuary. That is all I've asked of you thus far. I'm flattered that you're imagining I'm some mastermind concealing a wealth of ulterior motives, but I'm not nearly so interesting. I only want you to get along with the rest of your family."

Vicente took the handkerchief now and stood slowly. He knelt on one knee in front of Antoinetta. Her face was an utter mess. He started to dab at her cheek.

"We're your family. You're safe here. We are not the enemy."

The girl caught his wrist and dug her nails into his skin. Her hand was warm and pulsed with blood.

" _Family_ ," she spat the word like acid. "You keep saying family. I despise that word. My first family sold me to a... house. The people there said they were my new family. But they were just as cruel as the first."

Vicente pried her bony fingers off his arm and set the handkerchief in front of her again. She paused a second, then took it and blew her nose loudly.

After some time, Vicente spoke again, gently.

"A true family would never hurt-"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"That is quite alright."

Vicente stood. He was trying to think of something else to say, something that could possibly get through to her. She was addled in the head, there was no doubt about that. He felt sympathy for the girl, for no one so young should have to bear such horrors. But if she could not learn to control her hostility, it would not be wise to keep her here any longer. They were all outcasts and monsters here, but that was why these Sanctuaries existed. For people like them to have one place in the world where they didn't have to hide who they were.

"I... don't actually hate you, Vicente."

She said this unprompted.

Amused, Vicente raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Antoinetta bit her lip.

"And I... I'm sorry about the garlic thing."

Perhaps Antoinetta's apology was not entirely sincere, but he would not fault her for it. All that mattered to him were her future actions.

"Let's just not do it again, eh?"

"I won't. And I... I really was interested in Wayrest, you know..."

All of a sudden, a sharp scent prickled his nose.

Vicente held up a hand to silence Antoinetta.

Something was wrong.

Extraordinarily wrong.

Blood. He smelled blood.

Antoinetta continued to ramble.

"I hope you're not too cross with me or-"

"Quiet, girl," Vicente hissed.

Stagnant blood. Ocheeva's blood.

In her chambers just above Vicente's ceiling.

Only seconds had passed but he knew she was already dead.

Eliminated swiftly and silently. Like one of their marks.

Who could have done this?

Vicente knew that no intruders prowled these halls. He would have caught the unfamiliar scent of an outsider forthwith and intercepted them long before they could approach Ocheeva's quarters.

No, the truth was far more disturbing.

One of their own had betrayed them.

Antoinetta, unsettled by his cryptic silence, opened her mouth to speak. Vicente put a finger to his lips.

He could hear them through the walls.

Footsteps. The quiet, purposeful stride of a leather-clad assassin.

Vicente recognized their flat-footed gait. He recognized their odor, faintly tinged with volcanic ash. He did not want to believe it, but there was no denying who those footsteps belonged to.

"Sothrys," he growled. Dunmer. The other new initiate. Arrived at the Sanctuary a fortnight after Antoinetta Marie, but they couldn't be any more different. Where Antoinetta was volatile and frivolous, Sothrys was calm and consistent.

How could this happen? Vicente had scrutinized Sothrys as meticulously as he had every initiate that graced these halls. Not a single quickened pulse or furtive glance could escape the vampire's discernment, and he had no reason to suspect Sothrys would betray them. Again, while Antoinetta was glib and cheeky, Sothrys was a mer of few words. When he did speak, he always spoke the truth. Never questioned an order or botched a contract.

There was simply no time to ponder this any longer.

Straightaway Vicente's mind shifted to focus on the prey.

Wordlessly, he cloaked himself with a spell and pursued the ash-scent through the dim corridor. Antoinetta crept after him on the balls of her feet, holding a dagger behind her back. He did wish she had stayed behind, for all she could be now was a troublesome liability. But it was too late for words; the hunt had commenced.

His hunger sharpened his instincts and he concentrated on the blood pumping through Sothrys' veins, the heat his living body left behind.

The Dunmer waited in the common area. Tall, lean as a beanstalk. Obscured by black leathers unable to mask the fear Vicente smelled.

Gogron. M'raaj-Dar. Teinaava. They must have already passed, for Vicente could no longer sense them in the living quarters. Antoinetta might have been dead too, had she dined with the others before meeting with him.

The Dunmer was still standing there, impassioned, statuesque.

Vicente drew his sword.

"Why, brother?"

Sothrys had a scroll in his gloved hands. "It is the will of Sithis."

He unfurled the scroll.

Antoinetta shrieked.

Color flashed onto the walls, coalescing into a ghostly form. A humanoid figure, with long pale limbs and a hideous gaping mouth. Its wail rattled the foundation, extinguished the lamps above. It lunged at Vicente with icy breath and outstretched arms.

The vampire scoffed.

What a foolish notion, to unleash an angry spirit on one who could command the undead.

He simply raised his left hand and sent forth a spell. His magicka became a powerful suggestion, a single word which overrode the bound spirit's previous orders. It froze at once, then turned away from Vicente, contemplating its empty existence on this mortal plane.

Vicente moved inhumanly fast to tackle the Dunmer to the ground.

He could tear his throat open with his fangs right now and gorge himself on the soft fleshy sack of warm blood quivering in his grasp, but he fought against the vampiric urges that still pounded in his ear.

"What is this madness?" he demanded. He gripped Sothrys' shoulders and slammed his head into the stone floor.

 _Gentle,_ he reminded himself. He had to be gentle with mortal bodies because they broke so easily.

"It- it is the will of Sithis!"

When Vicente slammed Sothrys again he heard the distinct sound of glass crunching under him.

A pungent scent escaped, causing Vicente to recoil. It permeated his nostrils and his throat was on fire.

 _Garlic._

His arms no longer had the strength to restrain the Dunmer, who took this opportunity to leap to his feet and fling a knife at Antoinetta Marie.

It hit her in the shoulder.

Disoriented, Vicente was still crawling on the floor. The light from the candles became hazy orbs. But Sothrys' back was turned.

That was a mistake.

Vicente cast a paralysis spell on the Dunmer. As the green magicka swirled around him, his limbs stiffened and he fell backwards, like a wooden board.

Antoinetta tore the knife out of her shoulder. Weakened by poison, she stumbled towards the motionless Sothrys and plunged the blade inches deep into his chest.

Antoinetta clutched at her shoulder. She was sweating profusely.

Vicente couldn't look at her until he had drunk his fill from Sothrys and felt the surge of energy from the warm blood refresh his parched veins. He was regaining his strength, counteracting the effects of the damned garlic.

The rest of the family was dead, then. The only one Vicente could not be sure of was Telaendril, who was out completing a contract, but Sothrys must have already eliminated her. He was not one to leave loose ends.

And he was not a traitor, either. Steadfast, loyal Sothrys...

What did this mean?

Someone ordered him to do this.

Had Lucien invoked the ancient ritual of Purification?

 _Why?_

"Vicente..."

Her voice brought him back to the present.

Vicente caught Antoinetta just as she began to collapse. Her chest heaved against him with each strained, gasping breath.

"Do it..." she murmured.

The blood was thickening, coagulating inside her veins from the poison.

Antoinetta was dying.

Her pulse slowed. Her blue eyes stared at Vicente with temerity. She moved her lips slowly.

 _Now._

That was the word she mouthed with dry, cracked lips.

As she leaned against him, the blood from her wound seeped through his shirt. Vicente took one of her hands in his own, meshed his fingers lightly between hers. Antoinetta's warmth was fading.

"Are you certain?" Vicente asked, nearly whispering. "This is an existence more frightening than death. You will never know a peaceful afterlife."

Antoinetta responded by curling her fingers around his hand.

She wanted him to turn her.

But what if he did?

Vicente might have said it was what she wanted, it was her decision, and he was merely the intermediary. But he would not placate himself with falsehoods to pretend he still followed some broken idea of morality.

The only justifications for turning an adolescent into an abomination were self-serving and he was well aware of that fact. Her "decision" was entirely uninformed. She did not want to die, but she did not fully understand what it was to be neither dead nor alive. To steal the life-blood from others to maintain a hollow existence, to see everything as it truly was; vacillating between curious fascination and murderous hatred towards the living for the beauty of their mortality they could never appreciate.

And yet... Antoinetta already had the percipient mind of a hunter. She did not concern herself with the feelings of others, unless she could manipulate them to her benefit. If unbridled, Antoinetta could kill freely and easily; her only limitation was that fragile mortal body. She would have wanted this even if she were not on the verge of death. She would finally know what it was to be stronger than other people.

Ultimately, it was Vicente's decision. There was little time left for deliberation.


	12. Martin

Martin gazed up through the oculus in the domed ceiling, a window that gave a glimpse to the molten red sky above.

Tamriel was dying. The white stone walls around them were weeping.

The amulet weighed against his chest. He thought he'd never get used to wearing the heavy thing. It looked like he wouldn't have to, after all.

He took a deep breath but the air was so acrid it felt like tiny rocks in his lungs.

Mona was there, too. She stood at the altar. With her helmet off. Her lips were moving but Martin could not hear the words. Tears glistened in her eyes.

They were safe from the Daedra here, for however long the walls would hold, but they had not gone to the temple for sanctuary.

Martin looked up again, at the cruel red sky through the oculus. A bestial, inescapable laugh, yellow-brown like bile, rocking the foundation of the Temple. The walls began to crumble.

There was something he had to do...

 **Cloud Ruler Temple**

 **3 Frostfall, 3E 433**

 **2:40 AM**

Martin awoke with a start, nearly falling out of his chair. The candle on his desk was burning slowly, and he stared at the quivering flame over a pool of wax as his senses returned. A light sheen of sweat coated his brow, yet he was chilled to the bone. The blustering wind outside pelted snow and ice against the frosty window.

He had fallen asleep again.

Sleep. His tired eyes and sore muscles longed for respite, yet the nightmares were unrelenting, and morning would never come. Martin found it easier to stay awake than be subjected to these cryptic visions of what had thus far had turned out to be an immutable future. He had seen the red sky over Kvatch weeks before that terrible night, yet it had done nothing to prepare him for what would come to pass.

Others called it the gift of foresight. Uriel Septim knew it for what it was: a curse.

He blinked several times, and stared down at the open journal on his desk.

He'd only written one word on the page.

 _Mona_.

During these sleepless nights the Redguard woman had been on his mind, and he sometimes whispered her name in the darkness because it tasted like cream on his lips. On parchment, though, Mona was cerulean, the color of the sea at dawn, a painter's most luxurious pigment.

In his youth he'd discovered this trait of his to be an oddity; he couldn't explain why Morndas was violet, or Midyear smelled like fresh bread. It was only a kind coincidence that Mona's name happened to be a beautiful thing.

Rest might have come easier to Martin had he been assured of her safety, yet when Baurus arrived at Cloud Ruler Temple on that gray Middas alone, he could only fear the worst. But Mona was still alive in his dreams. That much was a mercy.

Some time passed, and Martin was not quite asleep or awake when the shadowy voices down the hall caught his attention. People were moving about in a brusque manner.

Had she returned?

Martin did not need to dress, for he had not planned to sleep tonight, and never changed out of his robes. Taking the candle with him, he slid open the thin wooden door.

Baurus, apparently still posted just outside his door, immediately stood at attention.

"Hail, sire!"

Martin bristled at this formal address.

He appreciated everything his loyal guardians did for him, of course, yet he could not deny that he was uncomfortable being treated as if he were already the Emperor. It was difficult to fathom. It seemed a lifetime ago that he was simply Brother Martin, though only weeks had passed.

Martin Septim. That was his name now, though it tasted like sour wine whenever he said it. What an overwhelming notion, that he was the sole heir to the Dragon Throne. He hoped he wouldn't let everyone down.

If he even lived long enough to take the throne, at least. If he was interpreting his dreams correctly, the stars seemed to have other plans for him. Then again, it was too early to tell, and perhaps his exhaustion was fostering a bleak cynicism within him.

"Please. You needn't stand on ceremony on my behalf. What's all the commotion? Has she returned?" Martin asked, meeting the Blade's eyes.

"Mona has been seen coming up the mountain. The others are preparing to receive her, my Lord."

"And you?"

Baurus' expression did not change. Nor did his voice, steady and verdant. "This is where I am needed. Standing guard while you sleep, sire."

Martin chuckled. "I appreciate your earnest, yet I'm afraid I haven't lived up to my end of that arrangement. Sleep has proven to be... difficult. Ah, well. Shall we also receive her?"

Baurus escorted Martin to the great hall. There were about ten Blades milling about already, rubbing their hands together for warmth. He wasn't certain why so many of them needed to be present at this ungodly hour of the night, but seeing as Mona's return would be the most eventful thing happening at Cloud Ruler Temple since... well, since her departure, he understood why they'd dragged themselves to the main hall with sleepy curiosity. From Baurus' report, the others expected Mona to return with the Amulet of Kings after infiltrating a major base of operations of the Mythic Dawn. And she had to do it alone. Martin was relieved she had even survived that ordeal. He'd wondered why Baurus did not stay to assist her before returning to Cloud Ruler Temple, though perhaps someone had to pass the pertinent information on to Grandmaster Jauffre in the event of her death. Which begged the question of whether the Blades expected her mission to be successful in the first place. Surely they would not treat her as expendable...

That was a terrible thought, of course. Not only that, it was a severe underestimation of Mona's abilities. As... tense as her relationship with the Blades was, they tolerated her presence because they needed someone like her. They did not have to enjoy her company. Baurus electing to leave Mona in the Imperial City while he returned to Cloud Ruler Temple alone underscored the Blades' chilly regard for her.

Two of the Blades were hovering over the massive hearth – Caroline was pumping bellows while Steffan struck a tinder. Sparks flew, yet nothing caught. Jena scoffed as she walked by, and with a flick of her wrist a sizable fire ignited the kindling.

Just then, the great double doors slammed open, the storm swirling snow and cold into the hall. It took two men straining on each side to close the doors against the strong winds.

Mona strode forward. The Blade walking beside her, another Redguard named Cyrus, carried her rucksack, dropping it on a table with a heavy _thud_.

Martin stood up from the chair he was seated in and brought it out for Mona to sit. After traveling for days, he could only assume she was in dire need of rest.

She stopped walking for a moment, glancing at the chair, then at Martin, her face inscrutable behind the visor of her helmet. Mona tilted her head slightly. Then, Jauffre impatiently closed the distance with another stride. Clearly, more pressing matters took precedence over Martin having a few words with Mona. Not that he could complain. He knew he would have his time later.

"The Amulet of Kings. Do you have it?" Jauffre's voice, always grainy, now a hurried plea.

Mona said nothing for a while. As if she had all the time in the world, and twenty or so Blades were not waiting for her to speak, she removed her mail gauntlets and placed them beside her pack.

Then, quietly, they all heard her voice for the first time in weeks, curt and fresh like the morning dew on grass.

"What did you say you were doing when the Amulet was stolen?" Then lower, more accusatory, still muffled by steel. " _Praying_?"

An icy silence fell upon the Blades. Her audacity even stunned Martin for a moment. Jauffre, however, maintained his composure, the creases in his forehead deepening as his arms remained rigid by his sides.

"I will assume, then, that you were unsuccessful," the grandmaster said.

Mona moved towards the table where Cyrus had placed her rucksack. It had sounded like something heavy was inside. She spoke as she unlatched the fasteners.

"Not entirely. Mankar Camoran was there – he was _wearing_ the Amulet of Kings, I don't know how, but that's another story. But before I could get to him, he opened a portal with this book and vanished. It's the Mysterium Xarxes. I stole it."

She sounded a bit proud of that fact.

It took a moment for it to dawn on Martin what this truly meant.

By the gods...

She had a Daedric artifact inside of her _bag?_

Her shoulders tensed as she reached inside.

"Stop!"

Martin moved swiftly. Before he knew it, he had reached inside of her rucksack, grasped on to her wrists. She resisted at first. After only a second, though, she relented, and he pulled her hands safely out of the bag.

A din of murmuring resounded amongst the Blades.

"Please," Martin said, staring now into that expressionless slit of her visor. Her eyes were behind there, somewhere.

Then, addressing the rest of the group. "Unless I am not the only one who truly understands how to protect themselves from the corrupting nature of Daedric magic, I would ask that none of you risk your safety by handling this book. Do not touch it, do not even _look_ at it for too long."

He realized he still had Mona's hands in his own. He ran his thumbs across her palms which were curiously pinkish in contrast to her dark skin.

"You did not try to read it?" he asked softly.

Mona shook her head. She wasn't saying anything.

He wondered if she would hate him, if ever she learned about his past.

Martin would have to tell her one day.

Finally, he released Mona's hands. Curiosity drew his eyes to the open rucksack on the table, and he was still staring at the shadowed opening when Jauffre started speaking to Mona again.

"I do not know what you went through to bring this to us. Yet... this may just be the edge we need. They still have the Amulet, but now we have something precious of theirs. You have given us hope. Martin..."

"Yes?" At least he had convinced the Grandmaster to call him Martin. It would not do for the Blades to see their leader speaking to him with such deference, not when they still needed Jauffre's direction.

"It is difficult to ask you alone to take this upon yourself. I could send for Tar-Meena, from the Arcane University. She does not have the same... intimacy, that you have, regarding Daedric magic, but Tar-Meena is a scholar, specializing in cults such as the Mythic Dawn..."

Something in Jauffre's speech struck Martin. His intimacy with Daedric magic. How much did he know...?

As Jauffre droned on, memories surfaced, like uninvited guests.

That wretched, pitiful thing was never meant to exist on the mortal plane... scythe-claws tearing its way into the world, the thing was vaguely human-shaped though it was anything but, with bulbous insectoid eyes and scales that oozed sticky black mucus. It did not cry, it screamed and would not stop for one day and one night. Martin buried it behind Gottlesfont Priory on the twelfth of Rain's Hand. He was too late when he found Nerissa, who had crawled beneath the chapel to die. Her dress was wet with blood. She whispered with turpentine in her dying breath.

" _You did this to me."_

After that, Martin lost himself for a while.

He found himself again in a temple of the Divines, though Martin might have said that it was Akatosh who found him.

"Sire?"

Baurus. Loyal, steady Baurus.

"Ah – apologies, my mind was elsewhere. Was there something you needed?"

Martin realized some time must have passed again, for the Blades were beginning to leave the room. Mona had removed her helmet and was engaged in conversation with Jauffre, but the words were distant, and Martin found himself unable to focus. Had her face always looked so smooth?

Baurus stepped in front of Martin, blocking his view.

"Are you feeling unwell?"

"No, I am quite fine. Just tired, maybe. I do appreciate the concern." He offered a weak smile.

Baurus said something about escorting Martin back to his chambers, but he shook his head.

Mona was still speaking with Jauffre, but when her eyes met Martin's, she excused herself from the grandmaster and started towards him.

"You're alive," he blurted out as soon as she could hear him, unable to stop himself.

"More interesting than dead, eh?" she replied, rolling her shoulders to relieve the stiffness. Now that she was closer, Martin saw that she was trembling. "Damn. I'm cold."

"You hiked up the Jerall mountains in the middle of the night, during a snowstorm. That was... bold of you."

Mona shrugged. "I wanted the snow to cover my tracks. But Jauffre told me the spies found us already, so I guess there was no point to that."

So that was what he was telling her. Martin wished the grandmaster would have at least allowed her to rest before dropping that news on her, but nothing could be done about that now. She was likely to depart again first thing in the morning.

Martin walked her to the table closest to the hearth, and she finally sat down with a long, heavy sigh. Mona leaned her back against the table, closing her eyes.

"Would you like something to drink? Some spiced mead, perhaps?" Martin asked, still standing.

Mona moved her head slightly. That looked like a nod. Though she had made quite the dramatic entrance, striding in through a blizzard, she looked positively exhausted now.

Martin waved away Baurus' attempts at taking the monumental burden of pouring a drink unto himself, and moved to the table with the bottle.

Defeated, the Blade continued to stand alone by the table, looking a bit lost, as he often did.

As Martin began to warm the bottle, Baurus addressed Mona from where he stood.

"Mona."

She opened one eye. "Mm?"

"You mustn't speak to Grandmaster Jauffre in that way. Not in front of the other Blades."

Mona craned her neck behind her to glance at Baurus.

"Do you think I went too far?" she asked, a trace of mocking in her voice.

Martin could already tell this was not going to go well.

Baurus was still standing feet away, at the edge of the table. Stern and ever solemn, which was striking in one so young. Had he let his guard down once since the death of the Emperor?

Would he ever forgive himself for that?

The Blade crossed his arms.

"Why did you feel the need to disgrace Grandmaster Jauffre? You only sow discontent - our morale is stretched thin as is."

Mona did not even bother moving from her seat. She waved a hand in the air, dismissively. "Is it my fault you Blades are so insecure, so ashamed that you need to rely on an outsider like me?"

Baurus furrowed his brow.

"What we _need_ is cohesion, not a – a spoiled princess from Hammerfell – deigning to tell us what to do and how."

There it was. Mona cared enough to stand now. Her hands clenched into fists, tar-black eyes widening in indignation.

"Spoiled princess? I nearly _died_ in there to retrieve the Mysterium Xarxes, and that is the first thing you say to me? Did you know that you were sending me straight into a trap? Oh, but I suppose you didn't care, because there was a _Septim_ up here to attend to! The rest of Tamriel can burn in Oblivion as long as you're up here to stand next to Martin!"

Trained to suppress his anger, Baurus responded with an oaken calm. His face twitched slightly.

"Emperor Martin's protection is our highest priority. The rest of Tamriel hinges on his survival."

This entire argument pained Martin, and he wondered if he ought to remind them both that he could hear every word. More than anything, though, he wished they would stop fighting. This was not helping anyone.

Yet neither of them were close to backing down. There was a dangerous intensity in Mona's eyes. She did not falter in her tone, nor did she break eye contact with the Blade. Martin did not even see her blink.

"But you _don't_ care about the rest of Tamriel, do you? The Blades would never be truly loyal to Chancellor Ocato or anyone who isn't a Septim, should we fail to retrieve the Amulet of Kings. Jauffre told me this himself. This ultimatum you create for yourself with this... this fanatic devotion to a single bloodline; it's absolute madness!"

Baurus was shifting his weight between his feet. The young man had served the Blades for all of his adult life. Mona's cutting remarks seemed to make him uncomfortable, and he did not speak with as much conviction as before.

"You know nothing of our order, or the work we do to preserve the Empire. The people need the Empire, and the Empire needs a Septim on the throne."

Now, gaining confidence, Baurus advanced closer. He pointed an index finger at Mona's face.

"What, are you going to run away because the reality is too rough for you?" he said, lowering his voice. "Because not everything goes according to your whims? Is that the reason you deserted the Imperial Legion? You would still be rotting in a prison cell if it weren't for the Blades. Remember that, princess!"

"Your captain was ready to kill me! It was the Emperor that saved me. Not any of you."

Martin rubbed his eyes. "Enough. Both of you."

At his command they ceased. Instantly.

Now they were looking at Martin expectantly, while he stood holding a bottle in one hand and a porcelain cup in the other. He was surprised it only took one exasperated comment to silence them. Of course, Martin Septim's words held more power than Brother Martin's, and this served as a reminder that he had to be particularly careful with what he said these days.

"It is bad enough that the Mythic Dawn seeks to kill us all. Why should we make it easier for them by destroying each other?"

The two of them started speaking over each other.

"Martin, the Blades are-"

"Sire, I cannot stand idle while she-"

Martin held up his hand to silence them again. "You both have valid arguments. These are important matters to discuss. But there is a time and place for everything. Now is not the time nor the place."

He walked back to the table and offered cups to both Mona and Baurus. Mona took it without hesitation, but Baurus shook his head and politely refused.

"Baurus... you've been so diligent. Please, why don't you take a break?" Martin suggested.

Truthfully, he longed to speak with Mona alone. Yet this was difficult to convey to Baurus without giving him the wrong idea.

Jauffre, deep in his machinations, once suggested to Martin that he propose to Mona. Yes, as that catastrophe of an argument reminded him, it was the death of the Septim dynasty that would anticipate the death of the rest of Tamriel, for the jaws of Oblivion would never be closed shut without the lighting of the dragonfires. That made it crucial that Martin produce an heir. Preferably several.

Somehow, that didn't seem right. That one dynasty should be given so much power. The Blades proclaimed their loyalty to a travel-worn priest in soot-stained robes before they had known anything about him apart from his heritage.

What if he had been mad as Pelagius? Or a bloodthirsty fiend like Potema? They would have blindly accepted him all the same. Mona's point was undeniable. Historically, the Blades had been fervently dedicated to the protection of the Septim line. But how could they operate when the line was dangerously close to extinction?

It... _was_ all for the greater good, was it not?

How was he expected to lead an Empire when he could not even resolve the animosity stewing at Cloud Ruler Temple?

No, Martin was not comfortable with his role in this farce. And even less comfortable with the notion that Jauffre was encouraging him to use Mona as a vessel to sire an heir.

But this was his duty, after all. All of Tamriel depended on him. He hoped he would not end up disappointing everyone.

Baurus muttered a few words and took his leave.

They were alone, now. He and Mona.

"Thank you for that," Mona said, looking down into her cup as Martin sat down beside her.

"Think nothing of it. If you're hungry too, I could-"

"I was talking about Baurus." Mona took a sip. "I think he blames me for a lot of things."

"Baurus blames himself more than anyone. The Emperor's death has haunted him so," Martin said.

There was a pause. The hearth crackled on.

"That book," Mona stared straight ahead, the orange flames of the fire reflecting against her eyes. "It's so evil. I wrapped it in two of my shirts and hid it away in my pack, but I still felt it calling to me. You really intend to read that?"

"I will do what I must."

"Can't we just... destroy it, or something?" she asked. "Would that kill him?"

"I don't know. That is why I must coax the secrets from its pages. The vagaries of Daedric magic are such that these artifacts can often be manipulated to serve another master than intended. But... extreme caution must be practiced."

There was silence, save for the crackling of the hearth.

Mona eventually broke the silence.

"I still think about him too. The Emperor, I mean."

"Oh, yes?" Martin was relieved at this change of subject. He never brought up the Emperor's death, as that wound was still fresh in all of their minds, yet he longed to learn more about the father he never knew.

"When we met, he had already accepted he was to die that night, in that room, and there was nothing to be done to change it. 'What path can be avoided whose end is fixed by the gods?' he said. I think a lot about what he told me. Do you believe in destiny?"

Martin chuckled joylessly. If only she knew. "I have reason to believe in it, yes."

He turned so that he could observe her, his elbow on the table, face resting on the palm of his hand.

"He... had kind eyes." A soft smile formed on her lips. "Like you. Kind... but so distant. I didn't know him for very long, though he seemed to know everything about me. He trusted me. Spoke his last words to me. I don't know why." She drew her legs closer to herself. "I thought it very sad, for someone to be able to see the future, and still be powerless to change it."

Martin was struck. He had never told her of his own dreams, but now he was tempted to fall into her, so that she could hold him in her lap while he confessed the terrible futures he had seen, the fragments he could make no sense of until it would be too late, how he was haunted by the vision of Mona crying in the temple every time while the white walls around them fell.

But he did not wish to trouble her with such things. She already had enough to worry about.

"My father was blessed to be able to share his final moments with one as kind as you," the priest mused.

Mona scoffed. "Kindness? No one has accused me of _that_ before."

"It is not such a heinous crime."

"No, perhaps not." Mona set down her cup. She stretched her arms out behind her head and stifled a yawn. "I decided years ago that I didn't care about being kind, so long as I was right."

"How can you be certain that you are always right?"

"I can't. I know I'm wrong a lot. But I'd rather tell an unkind truth than a kind lie. What about you?"

Martin chuckled. "I admire you for this, Mona. Honesty is important. I concern myself greatly with the thoughts and feelings of other people. Sometimes, I believe in sparing another from undue harm, and only saying things that could help them. Perhaps that is a weakness."

"You're a priest, though. You're supposed to be like that."

"I don't think Jauffre wants me to be a priest anymore," Martin said. He'd already drunk half the cup already. The mead unsettled his empty stomach, and this made him realize that he should have offered Mona some food instead. But it was too late for that, and she didn't like his fussing in any event.

"With me... you are still a priest, Martin."

"What does that mean?"

Mona narrowed her eyes. They were so dark, pitch-dark, he could not distinguish the pupils from the irises.

She inched closer to him. Her hand reached out to his face, lightly brushing against his cheek as she tucked a stray lock of his hair behind his ear.  
Martin felt the heat rising to his face at once. Her dark lips... they were so close. He struggled to pull himself away, but he did it, feeling a great constricting tightness in his chest.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Mona slammed a hand on the table. The cups rattled.

"Don't apologize! This is what I mean! You care about everyone. Everyone except yourself. I see you flush with ardor every time I draw near, and yet-"

Mona cut herself off abruptly, shaking her head.

"Never mind," she muttered. "This isn't helping."

Martin's head was still reeling in shades of rose from her sudden outburst. He wished she could have finished what she was going to say.

Instead, the Redguard stood, eerily composed. She took her cup and quaffed the rest of the mead, tilting her head back.

"Ah... I'm tired," she announced. "I'm going to bed."

"Mona..." he rose from his seat, suddenly aware of how awkward and burdensome his movements were. His chest still ached. She was an island with her arms crossed, as she stood waiting for him to finish speaking all the words that wouldn't come. It would be difficult for him to explain just _why_ he hesitated with her. He didn't want to hurt her. But how could he tell her this?

Nerissa. Haderus. Drothys. M'reeza. Rorik. He would never forget their faces. Why should he be allowed happiness while they were dead because of him?

Yet... Mona was standing here in front of him. Glaring at him with that livid compassion she seemed to possess.

Against his better judgment, Martin took a step forward.

Her lips parted and she looked as though she might speak, but then Martin wrapped his arms wholly around her, pulling her towards him, and instead of words he felt a light, shuddering gasp escape her. Without pause, Mona's arms untangled and returned the embrace, drawing him even closer. Even her lithe body was firm and efficient as her demeanor, not wasting an ounce that could be toned into muscle, all without any unnecessary bulk. She had all the strength, all the courage that Martin did not, and while he wondered what he had done to deserve her affection, he put those thoughts aside to enjoy this moment while it lasted.

Her clothes smelled of dried sweat but this was all fine because she was so warm and he could feel her chest rising and falling with each breath. Mona's head was pressed against him, and he ran his hand over her short hair. He liked the rough, wiry texture of it.

It was a warm, still moment, and neither of them spoke for a long time.

His hand in her hair gradually moved down the nape of her neck.

Martin spoke softly in her ear. "I haven't always been a priest."

* * *

The Mysterium Xarxes was laid out in front of him. All around were words, swirling blood-red and razor-sharp. Dagon's symbolism twisted, warping in a ring around him, coaxing Martin to delve further through tunnels of malice between the characters.

That hateful voice spoke often. It was bile-yellow, same as the laughter in his dream.

" _Martin..."_

It was the array. He knew he had to reconstruct it in the same way Mankar Camoran must have done. Mona hadn't remembered anything about it when she saw him perform the ritual. Of course she hadn't. She knew not what to look for. 'It just happened.' Yes, that was what magic looked like to someone who knew nothing about it.

Martin was on his hands and knees on the floor of the great hall, just in front of the empty hearth. Hours ago, a fire had been lit, but only ashes remained.

" _I can see inside of you."_

He held a brush dipped in black paint, but as he traced the array the sharp angles and sweeping lines looped to infinity inside of his mind, orbiting him in space like planets projected in some Dwemer observatory. Though the paint was black, each Daedric character became something else when he brought them to life with the brush. Oht was the cruel scarlet sky above Kvatch on that terrible night. Ayem was a glossy off-white, like polished bone. Neht was dirty rust-brown like dried blood. Tayem seductive, toxic purple nightshade.

That ugly voice again. Like maggots in his brain.

" _Martin... what master do you serve?"_

"I serve no master," he replied to the voice. He could feel the heartbeat of the Xarxes pulsing in his ears.

" _I could set you free."_

Martin had to remain calm. Dagon was known for his arrogance. If Martin could keep a conversation with the Daedric Prince, perhaps his secrets would eventually be revealed...

So long as Martin did not reveal more than he had to.

"It is not freedom you offer, only shackles. I am not so much a fool as you think," he said to the Daedra.

" _Ah. You puppet, you lamb, you callow fool, you. The Empire you serve is decadent and corrupt. Look inside yourself, Martin. There are things that I know. Why did you leave the Mages Guild? What was it you desired the most?_

"Power," Martin murmured. "The power to change destiny."

" _Power, yes! The power to change! Do you believe that the power to change destiny will come from being Emperor to this rotting kingdom, which will soon be dust on the winds of revolution?"_

"I will become Emperor so that I may defeat you."

" _Why?"_

"Because you are evil. You do not belong on Mundus and I will destroy you."

" _You believe in good and evil? You mortals create such useless words for concepts you do not understand. But I will explain it to you. There is no such thing as evil. There is only power. You could change your fate, Martin. You could change the fate of Tamriel. Not with good, or evil, but with power. Absolute power."_

"Sanguine could not change the destiny I foresaw. Why should I believe that you can?"

" _Sanguine? Sanguine is a hedonistic, self-indulgent voyeur as easily distracted as a gnat. He plays at a vile imitation of power, but only children play games. Are you a child?"_

Martin did not answer.

" _You could become a god. In your dreams, do you see the new Tamriel that I have created?"_

"Why would I tell you?"

" _Because I am not merely a shadow in your nightmares. I am the beginning of the end. I am rivers of blood, I am the sundering earthquake, the tides of destruction against your pitiful Empire. Resist, and you will be punished with the rest of the flock."_

"And if I join you?"

" _I will reward you with power you are incapable of imagining. Mankar Camoran has been a useful pawn, but he is not worthy of being my champion. Sanguine misused your potential. You did well to reject an unworthy Prince as him. Come to me, Martin Septim. Come slow, and bring four keys. You know the secrets behind my words. You have always known many things that mortals should not know."_

Four keys. Yes, Martin had read that passage many times over while the book tried to probe him through layers of magical wards. This was why he could not allow the others to touch the Mysterium Xarxes, especially not Mona. It was akin to the very eyes of Mehrunes Dagon himself –

 _the fourth, the very eyes of Padhome..._

Daedric Princes did not have blood in the same way men and mer had blood to sustain their life force, but all were formed from the blood of Padhome. Daedric princes shaped their blood into objects of great power, like the Mysterium Xarxes or the Sanguine Rose. These objects were their way of exercising control in Mundus through mortal champions while the liminal bridges were still intact.

"Was your blood used in Mankar Camoran's ritual? Your Razor?" Martin asked.

The rumbling laughter echoed in his brain.

" _I would never allow Camoran to touch my Razor, let alone destroy it. I had another sword for him, one with twin blades shaped like the sliver of Secunda when the shadow of Jode obscures all but a crescent."_

Then it was confirmed. The fourth key was the blood of a Daedric Prince. Mehrunes Dagon, with his vaunting pride, had revealed it himself. He also revealed that the artifact would be destroyed in the process. That left three keys, and Martin did not believe Dagon would make plain those secrets so easily.

He dipped the brush in the paint again, but a shadow from behind crept over the array he had drawn on the floor. Hands clamped onto his shoulders.

Martin snatched the cup of dirty brush water and splashed it backwards at his would-be assailant.

"Martin!"

His heart lurched when he heard her rosewater voice. Immediately he slammed the Mysterium Xarxes shut, covered the evil book with the oilcloth from the table so that she would not have to see it.

Mona crouched beside him. Ashamed, he forced himself not to look at her. She was dripping on to the floor, as if she were made of water. He could hear her teeth chattering.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice sounding hoarser than he imagined it would be. His throat felt dusty.

The symbols painted on the floor seemed so unclear, so fuzzy now. When he had been reading the Xarxes, everything was sharp and distinct and he felt as if he could do anything. Now he just felt tired, his bones a hundred years older.

"You need to rest. Jauffre told me you've been at it since I left. _Please_."

"Since you... left?" He struggled to remember. She'd talked of leaving the next morning, but... it was still nighttime.

Mona let out an exasperated sigh. He could see her misty breath in his peripheral vision. Martin turned to look at her, now.

It was cold enough in Cloud Ruler Temple in Frostfall when the hearth was dead, but her shirt was soaking wet. Mona was shivering. His fault. He had done this.

"You're... gods, I'm so sorry, you're freezing. You should change your clothes."

"I will if you eat something," she retorted.

Then it was decided.

He attempted to stand, but the weakness hit Martin all at once and he wondered why everything looked wavy. His legs buckled and he the black void overcame his vision, but Mona's strong arms caught him before he fell. She was so close to him now, cold and wet and still trembling, holding onto him firmly and keeping him grounded in reality.

She helped him walk, slowly, as if he were a sickly old man. His legs felt like they had not been used in decades.

"I'm sorry," Martin said again.

"For what?"

He was not certain what for. He thought he should be sorry for something.

"I..." Martin looked around, but moving his head that much curdled him with a wave of nausea, so he just closed his eyes and trusted Mona to guide him.

"I did not hurt anyone, did I? Baurus..."

"No, Martin. You shouted at Baurus a great deal for disturbing your work, and he let you alone after that. But you didn't hurt anyone."

"I splashed water on you," he said, dejectedly.

Mona laughed, though.

"I'll live."

* * *

Martin awoke to a gentle nudge. He was still in the great hall, though someone had wrapped a blanket around him, which he now drew tighter over his shoulders.

He could see the sun peeking through the windows.

"It is day already?" Martin groaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. It seemed like he had been nodding off only moments ago, after eating. At least he thought. Lately, it had been difficult for him to tell.

Mona's voice responded. "Mid-day, yes. Martin, when was the last time you went outside?"

Mid-day? That was new. Why had no one had decided to wake him?

"I... don't know." Since the spies had been sighted around the Temple, he had been advised to stay indoors. 'Away from windows,' Jauffre added, but Martin thought that was taking it too far.

"The sun is out for once. Why don't you wash up? We should take a walk."

This sounded more like a command than a suggestion. Martin was anxious to return to work on deciphering the Xarxes.

"What about the spies?" he asked in a halfhearted attempt to deter her.

"Oh, I took care of them."

Martin raised an eyebrow.

"You were gone for only three days."

Mona grinned, scratching the back of her head.

"I'm good at what I do. Let's talk about it outside, okay? I've got a lot to tell you."

* * *

The dazzling reflection of the sun against the snow blinded Martin momentarily as they took the first few steps outside. Everything seemed so... bright. The air was crisp and smelling of pine, invigorating him as he took a deep inhale.

His weary mind began to clear as he listened to Mona's summary of events. They meandered along the battlements at a slow pace, which Martin's stiff legs were grateful for. She told him about Bruma, and what she had learned from the spies. A Great Gate was to be opened on the outskirts of the city. Miraculously, they had a date. The 20th of Evening Star. That gave them plenty of time to advise the Countess and bolster Bruma's defenses. This was a rare bit of good news; that they could avert a disaster before it even started. The last thing Martin wanted to see was another Kvatch.

Still, each time he remembered the Xarxes Martin experienced a surge of impatience, even _anger_ at Mona knowing every moment squandered out here could be spent studying.

At the same time he dreaded returning to that wretched voice, the jagged characters scrawling hateful words in Dagon's blood.

It was disturbing to think that he had been studying the Xarxes for three days straight without food or water or rest. To Martin, it only felt like hours had passed. The tome consumed him wholly, chewing slowly at his psyche through all of his wards, savoring him like a sugar treat.

Mona was here, though. She offered a brief respite from the corrupting magic of that horrible book, yet he could not become too distracted from the task at hand. He'd already slept half the day when time was in such short supply. Why should he be allowed to rest when the fate of Tamriel depended on him alone to conquer the secrets of the Xarxes?

They talked, and the fog in Martin's mind gradually began to lift.

A stray wind tousled his hair. Mona brushed out the tangles with her fingers.

"Your hair is so soft," she said idly. "It grows out long. My hair can't do that. It just grows... out."

"I like your hair," Martin said. Without thinking, he moved his hand out to feel the short, tight curls atop her head.

Then, he felt that pang in his chest again.

Martin instantly retracted his hand just before he would have touched her.

Mona frowned. She leaned backwards over the parapet, placing a finger on her lower lip.

"Tell me, Martin, how do you think of me?"

"Constantly," he admitted, and that was the truth.

"Then... why? Is it because you believe it would be inappropriate for us to..." she trailed off. Martin did not know what she meant by this. Normally she was more straightforward, but he did not know if she was speaking of marriage, or something more... carnal than that.

"That... no. Even Jauffre has made it no secret that he would find you a worthy empress, if ever we were to wed. And, I would not be opposed to, to-"

Gods, what was he _saying?_ Marriage? That was such a sudden leap, why had his exhausted mind even brought that up?

Yet Mona was still waiting for him to finish. He could see the edge of her mouth twitching into a half-smile. Thankfully she was amused by his fumbling rather than offended.

"I mean... forget about marriage," he said quickly, gesturing emphatically with his hands. "That is not even what this is about. Whoever I become, whether I am Brother Martin or Emperor Martin, I would never treat you coolly because of it. In soothe, Mona, I believe you have a lot to teach me. You have lived as a noble, even though you deny your heritage. I am quite flattered that you choose to spend so much of your time with me, I..." he was rambling, and still did not know what he was trying to say. Mona had been gazing at him the entire time, the smile on her face turning into a sly grin, as if she were hiding a most tantalizing secret.

"What are you thinking about?" Martin asked.

Mona placed a hand on his cheek.

"I'm wondering what would happen if I did _this_ ," she said, almost whispering.

Abruptly, she tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him close.

Martin did not resist while Mona locked him in a strong kiss. It was so sudden, and so vigorous, she did not give him time to deny his feelings.

The fluttering in his stomach turned into warmth flooding through his body, as if he were made entirely of light. They pulled away a moment to take sharp breaths of winter air, laughing airily in spite of the cold burning in their lungs.

Her eyes, wide and elated, took on new depth as the sun caught her at this angle, illuminating a swirling cascade of umber and gold and olive around the pupils and Martin thought how fortunate he was to see this hidden world within her eyes.

Then, Martin kissed her again. He didn't feel cold in the slightest.


	13. Reynald Jemane

**7 Hearthfire, 3E 433**

 **Grey Mare, Chorrol**

"Are you Reynald Jemane?"

It seemed as though the voice was miles away, though the courier was standing directly in front of him. Reynald had to squint to make him out. The youth might have been an Imperial, but it was difficult to tell. Everything looked watery, unstable.

"Aye, the one and only," Reynald slurred. Talking made his head hurt. So did the light. It pained him to keep his eyes open because of this, so he stared down at the unswept floor. But the ground beneath his feet was moving, undulating like ocean waves, and he felt seasick even though he was on solid land. There was a fair amount of ale on the floor. Some ninny must have spilled it earlier.

In all likelihood that ninny had been him.

"I've a letter for you. From Brother Piner at Weynon Priory."

All at once the darkness seized Reynald's chest. He wanted to vomit but he couldn't even breathe. Weynon Priory… Weynon Priory… oh, by Talos, what had he done? He'd heard of the attack this morning and wondered when he would wake up from this nightmare.

Like Kvatch, this was all his doing. His foolish, selfish doing.

He had told them everything about some sorry bastard in Kvatch. Out of sight, out of mind. That's what he'd thought at the time when he was broke and hungry. What did he care about a man he'd never met in his life?

But it was a lot more than that. He'd sold out his friends, nay, his _family_. And for what? For the sack of gold he was boozing away?

The courier spoke over Reynald's inner torment.

"You heard about the attack this morning? Dreadful business. Who would want to hurt that lot of peaceful monks, I want to know."

It sounded as if the boy were shouting into his ear. Each word pierced through his skull, stabbing his brain.

Reynald slowly turned around, though the walls didn't stop moving when he did. "Really, do you have to be so _loud?_ "

"Huh? Err, I'm sorry…"

Reynald began to massage his temples. He tried to speak but his mind was a jumbled mess. He just wanted the courier to put the letter on the table and leave.

"I never realized - you must have known them. I'm sorry for your loss."

"I grew up at the Priory," Reynald said vaguely, though it felt as if these words had come from someone else. A different Reynald, a different time.

He betrayed the only people in this world that meant anything to him, that he had ever cared about. Well, aside from Finna, but she hadn't spoken to him in years. He wondered if she was still wasting her time with that filthy barbarian Holgar. Not that Reynald could claim to be a better man.

The courier was still standing there, shifting his weight awkwardly. Reynald realized that he was waiting for a tip. Grumbling, he placed two Septims into the boy's palm.

"Divines bless you-"

"Go away," he snapped.

The unopened letter rested on the edge of his table, filling Reynald with despair each time he glanced at it, at the red wax seal with the draconic emblem of Talos.

With the help of another drink he finally mustered the courage to break the seal, taking several deep breaths. His hands were trembling as the paper unfolded.

The words swirled as if the ink were running. He squinted harder at the page. Without a doubt that was Brother Piner's careful hand, as precise as print, not a word blotted out because he must have written three drafts of the same letter already, just so that it would be perfect. Piner was like that.

 _My dearest friend Reynald,_ the letter started. Gods, Reynald was already sick.

 _By now, I know that news of the attack on Weynon Priory has already reached you._

 _Reynald, Prior Maborel is dead. I would have called on you in person were my hands not tied with preparations for his burial on the morrow. A shadow looms over the Empire, and we must all put aside our disagreements and come together to support one another. I understand that the asceticism of monastic life was not your calling, and I respect your decision to seek a different path. But if one good thing may come from this tragedy, it would be a reunion with the man I once knew as brother. I have always loved you, and always will, no matter your indiscretions._

 _Talos guide you._

 _Piner_

"Reynald?" That was Emfrid's voice sounding remarkably soft, rather than the much shriller tone she used to remind Reynald to pay his tab. "Are you crying?"

Reynald's face felt numb. He did nothing to hide the tears dripping out his eyes. One droplet landed on the paper he stared down at, blurring the word "brother."

Being a strong-minded Nord with no regard for privacy, Emfrid snatched Reynald's letter away and skimmed it quickly.

"Ah… goodness, Reynald… that Prior Maborel, you told me of him. He was like a father to you, wasn't he?" she said, placing a thick hand on her chest. Then, mercifully discarding her sympathy for practicality, her eyebrows knitted together and she glanced at him sternly. "You ought to leave now if you're going on foot. That is, if you want to reach the Priory before sundown. No, wash yourself up first. You look a right mess, you do."

"Yes," was all Reynald could manage to croak.

* * *

A cold bath and two cups of tea later, Reynald began his journey to Weynon Priory. It was not too far away, less than an hour on foot. He spent most of that time half-stumbling, until his drunkenness faded, leaving nothing but a splitting headache.

Any other traveler may have appreciated the beauty of the Great Forest in autumn, the leaves beginning to turn vibrant shades of yellow and orange, but this only reminded Reynald that winter would soon be here, and this beauty would shrivel up and die.

Nestled deep within the forest was Weynon Priory, the steeple of the chapel piercing through a canopy of trees.

The two-storied house he grew up in was just across from the chapel, a stone dwelling with wood-timbered gables, ivy creeping nearly ten feet high. It looked much the same as he left it. Except now the front wooden door was splattered with blood.

Moving behind the house Reynald noticed four bodies propped against the wall, wrapped in burlap. Smokey incense burned in an iron censer to keep the flies away. It was just so that the monks of Weynon Priory would treat even the bodies of their enemy with at least the barest amount of respect.

Eronor was out in the yard with his sleeves rolled up, fiercely digging a hole. Yet as soon as he saw Reynald the stablehand dropped the shovel and ran to greet him with a big, sloppy hug.

"There, there," Reynald said, unsure how to comfort the dark elf towering nearly a foot above him, sobbing into his shoulder. He was mostly trying to concentrate on breathing.

When Eronor finally pulled away to retrieve his shovel, Reynald noticed two people seated on the chapel steps, both looking a bit ragged and travel-weary. He'd never seen them before in his life. One was a Redguard woman, young and hale. She wore over her armor a bloodstained white tabard with a wolf emblem in the center. The symbol of Kvatch. But she didn't look like a common guard.

Her sharp eyes were already examining Reynald. The intensity of her stare put him ill at ease. It felt as if she could read his thoughts, and if they made eye contact for too long, she would know all the terrible things that he had done. Reynald quickly looked away, at the other person.

A man. Imperial. Not as young as the woman, though not exactly old, either. Wavy brown hair, skin somewhat tanned like a farmer's. Dressed in dirty gray priest robes.

There was nothing about his appearance that suggested he was someone extraordinary. He just looked like a priest who had gone a few days without shaving, and perhaps sleeping.

And yet… Reynald had a feeling he knew who this person was...

"I do not know if the enemy followed us from Kvatch, or if they had an informant here all along. I thought you would be safe here, Brother Martin, but we may be treading about a hornet's nest," the Redguard woman was saying.

The realization hit Reynald like a brick to the face.

This… this was the bastard son, the priest from Kvatch that Jauffre mentioned in all his letters? The one that those men were after?

The one that Reynald had doomed with a word?

He was... alive?

The priest was unaware that Reynald had been staring at him for nearly a minute, and replied to his travel companion. The conversation sounded like it was getting heated.

"You truly believe that someone at Weynon Priory is consorting with these assassins?"

"I'm saying the enemy knew things that only Jauffre and the others should have known," the Redguard answered smoothly, not missing a beat. Was she looking at Reynald when she said that? Oh, gods, she was looking at him.

Thankfully, as soon as Martin spoke she turned back to him.

"Look at the faces of the people around you. The entire Priory is in a state of grieving."

The woman scoffed. "Yes, I can make myself look sad too, if I want." She then scrunched her face into a look of believable despair, her lower lip quivering as her eyes widened desperately.

"Stop that," the priest scolded, looking away with a barely-hidden smirk. The woman gave him a playful punch on the shoulder.

"See? You're too trusting, Brother Martin. That's not becoming, especially not if you want to stay alive long enough to be crowned Emperor. Until we find out who talked, we ought to assume everyone here is a potential threat. I should ask Jauffre for permission to interrogate… you know, interrogate possible leads..."

"Interrogate? Leads? Mona… this is all too much. You're exhausted, and I think it is affecting your thoughts. You should rest while we still have time."

"Right, so that the traitor can slit my throat while I sleep?" she snapped.

"You told me in Kvatch it was me they were after," the priest said. "Besides, I wouldn't allow them to hurt you."

The Redguard woman let out a short laugh.

"What are you going to do, watch over me as I sleep?"

"Would you like me to?" he asked. "Or... is that improper? Shall we ask Brother Jauffre what he thinks?"

Mona clamped a hand over her mouth as she laughed through her fingers, glancing over her shoulder to ensure that stodgy old Brother Jauffre wasn't listening. Even Martin chuckled lightly.

"I'll be fine," Mona finally said. "Just… cast another healing spell on me, or something."

Eronor stood beside Reynald, now leaning against the shovel. His ash-gray skin was shiny with sweat.

"Jauffre says they're his friends," the elf said in a hushed voice. "I think they're important, but he won't say why. The woman came here alone last week. She and Jauffre talked for a long time behind a locked door. I heard him shouting. And Jauffre _never_ raises his voice. Maybe this has to do with the Emperor's death? I don't know… no one tells me anything around here."

Reynald exhaled. He smiled feebly up at Eronor.

"Here, let me have that shovel. I'll finish digging the grave," he said gently, setting a hand on the elf's shoulder.

Eronor's red eyes widened.

"What spirits have possessed you, Reynald Jemane? You, offering to do _work_? Never thought I'd see the day," he said, almost sounding amused.

Reynald forced a chuckle.

"Go tell Brother Piner I've arrived, would you?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

Indeed, Reynald had only dug a few shovelfuls of dirt before his soft hands began to blister. Eronor was right. He'd always been a lazy good-for-nothing, avoiding work at every possible turn. Yet now he continued to dig as the late afternoon sun beat down on his head. Beads of sweat rolled down his neck and he stabbed the earth with the shovel again.

He knew he was nowhere near finished. Prior Maborel had been a portly man, and would need a larger grave. Morbidly, he wondered if the carpenter would be working overtime to finish a special order for his coffin. Undoubtedly that had been part of Piner's frantic arrangements.

By the time Brother Piner emerged from Weynon House carrying a jug of water, Reynald had established a sort of rhythm with his digging. All the same, he was grateful to take a break. He drank a long sip of water, then splashed a good amount over his head to cool himself.

"It is good to see you," said Piner, brow furrowed, looking especially worried, more than usual. Reynald wondered if he had given himself an extra forehead crease or two from frowning so much during the past day.

"And you, Brother," Reynald answered, not meeting the monk's eyes.

He felt as if he had swallowed an apple, whole.

An uncomfortable silence fell on the both of them.

Reynald stepped into the hole and resumed digging.

"Reynald…" Piner started, frowning even deeper. He was clutching his prayer beads in his left hand, knuckles turning white. "I worry for you."

"You worry about a lot of things."

"Well, yes." Piner smiled. He looked very tired. "I have been thinking about you since you left the Priory. I fear… I feared that Prior Maborel's death would affect you strongly."

"Of course it does. I imagine it has affected all of us," Reynald said, his voice sounding hollow.

"We all were fond of him, of course. He was a kind man and an admirable Prior. But to you… Prior Maborel was the closest you ever came to having a father. And now…"

"He's dead. I'm fine."

"But Reynald-"

Reynald slammed the shovel into the earth. It hit a rock, hard. He felt the shock tingling up his spine.

"What do you _want_ from me, Brother Piner? What do you want me to say right now? I'm all out of words, all out of feelings. I can't do this-"

Reynald choked. Brother Piner knew nothing. "I must resolve my struggles alone," he concluded with finality.

Brother Piner shook his head.

"I will leave you to your thoughts if you desire it. But… you are never alone. Talos is standing beside you, even if you have turned your own back on him."

"No," Reynald said. "No, the gods have abandoned me. Of this I am certain."

"What ever do you mean by this? Reynald, your words are troubling. I have heard… stories, of your condition. I shall not admonish you for succumbing to drink and idleness, for the gods would surely forgive you these sins."

Reynald dropped the shovel. His hands were bleeding from the blisters, but it was this pain that distracted him from his turmoil. He climbed out of the hole now, brushing the dirt off his pants.

He did not want forgiveness where it was undeserved.

Yet he was in too deep, far too deep. There was no getting out of this now; the others would kill him if he talked. And they _would_ know. They knew everything.

"Brother Piner… do you believe the gods forgive the weak and cowardly?"

"The gods are here to protect those that cannot fight for themselves. Weakness and cowardice are not sins alone."

That was pious Brother Piner's answer. Reynald wondered if he would be so mealy if he knew the truth, knew why the Priory had been attacked in the first place.

"And those that _have_ committed sins as a result of their weakness?"

"Well…" Brother Piner stopped to think for a moment. "That is for the gods to decide. What troubles you?"

Reynald looked up at the house. The two guests must have already retreated indoors, but he couldn't know if that Redguard woman was still watching him. By now it was dusk and the crickets were beginning their nightly chorus.

"Cut from a different cloth, you and I," Reynald muttered. It was too late, far too late to tell him anything. What good would that do? "Even when we were young, I knew I was not the same as you."

"It doesn't have to be this way," Piner still insisted.

Reynald didn't say anything.

* * *

Reynald waited until nightfall when everyone else was asleep, before heading to the chapel. There were no stars in the sky, for it had been cloudy all day.

Prior Maborel's body was wrapped in a dark silk cloth, though his head was still visible and stiff hands clasped over his chest as if in prayer. The prior looked unusually peaceful for a man that had suffered a violent death, but Reynald could only guess what was under the cloth. The only light came from the many votive candles flickering around him. Reynald knelt between the pews in front of the altar, staring at one of the tiny, whispering flames.

He didn't want to believe that this pale, shriveled corpse was once Prior Maborel, though it undoubtedly was him. Reynald closed his eyes, thought of the Prior he had known in life. A stout, ruddy-faced Breton, almost as wide as he was tall, shuffling into the blank spaces of his mind.

Pipe tobacco. The Prior always smelled of pipe tobacco. Even when he wasn't smoking the scent was carried on his robes.

Maborel had a sort of working-class roughness about him in his speech and attitude, regaling them with tales of his upbringing in Daggerfall, in a leaky house with no windows right by the West District Gaol.

" _A right morass you've gotten yourself into this time, boy. Have you any idea what this means?"_ he would have boomed, raspy and livid, were he still alive to chastise Reynald.

Reynald always listened when Maborel spoke. For the Prior had a rare voice that immediately commanded attention. He could rouse even the sleepiest congregation with his powerful sermons and allegorical anecdotes.

And his scoldings were just as emphatic as his preaching.

Each time young Reynald was caught stealing a meat pie from the kitchen meant for the paupers, or sneaking out at night to meet Nelly Odiil, Prior Maborel was the one who kept him in line, frightening him with the fires of Oblivion that awaited the souls of all the wicked boys and girls who did not beg the Nine for forgiveness.

But this time, Reynald would not beg the Divines for forgiveness.

He did not deserve it.

What did he have to fear? The fires of Oblivion? Eternal torment?

He was already there.

But why, of all the cruel ways the Divines might have thought to punish him, why had they taken Prior Maborel?

Prior Maborel, the great big man who sketched pictures of foxes, tossed seed for the crows and would get misty-eyed when holding a newborn? Prior Maborel, who could even see the good in a delinquent like Reynald Jemane? Who only ever was angry out of love and concern?

A sharp, choked sob escaped Reynald. He bowed closer to the ground until his forehead was touching cold stone. His chest was aching terribly and he wanted to die right here on the hard floor. But if he plunged a knife into his belly right now, he'd be leaving a mess behind for Brother Piner and the others to clean up. It would be better if he died alone, in the woods where no one would find him.

Several paces behind him, close to the chapel door, Reynald heard a pair of feet landing on the ground, as if they had leaped from the belfry ladder.

 _No..._

Reynald sat up straight, but he didn't dare to turn around.

"It's too bad for the fat priest," came a distinctly urbane sneer Reynald could guess belonged to an Altmer male. Why did they all have to sound so arrogant?

 _Thump._

A lighter set of feet hit the ground.

"But why the tears, _sera?_ Cheer up. We'll pay you double if you help us again."

That was an equally mocking voice, deep and feminine yet slightly gritty, like a Dunmer.

One of them was jangling a heavy coinpurse. The two advanced towards Reynald. He still did not turn around to face them, but he saw their candlelit shadows growing longer.

"What more do you want from me?" Reynald growled.

"Oh, it's simple," started the Altmer. "Even for _you."_

The Dunmer explained further. "You saw Brother Martin? The priest?"

"And the lioness that guards him day and night," muttered the Altmer.

"Earn Martin's trust. Not a difficult task; he's a good-hearted fool."

Now they were just going back and forth.

"The woman keeps a supply of potions, to stave fatigue."

"We'll give you concentrated Daedra venin – tasteless, odorless, colorless in this state," cut the Dunmer excitedly.

"It won't kill her, but it will knock her unconscious in minutes."

"The priest will assume she merely passed out from exhaustion. Then..."

"Oh, he doesn't need to know the rest," interrupted the Altmer. "Fear not, we'll take it from there. What say you?"

Reynald scowled.

"Do I even have a choice?"

The Dunmer let out a terrible shriek of a laugh, but quickly corrected herself after the Altmer hissed at her.

"Aha ha, ha – well, we thought you'd be a good sport," she said. "It would be a shame if something happened to old Jauffre, and that sheep-brained _n'wah_ in the stables. You like gold, don't you? See, everyone's happy."

The chapel door burst open.

Reynald hustled to his feet. Turning around, he saw the red-robed cultists react quickly to the newcomer by charging flame spells.

The Dunmer suddenly screamed, doubling over, and Reynald saw a flash of steel wrenched through her chest.

Without thinking, Reynald rushed forward, tackled the Altmer to the ground. The elf wriggled beneath him, but the stranger brought the sword down on his gold-skinned neck and that was the end of him.

Reynald rolled over, off the Altmer's body, hitting his head on one of the pews. He laid on his back, chest heaving in short, frenzied breaths, eyes wide.

The newcomer wiped their sword clean on their robes. Reynald could not distinguish their face in the near-darkness of the chapel, but he did see a bare hand reaching out to him, a familiar gold band around the thumb. _Maborel's ring_ , Reynald thought.

Reynald took the hand, but instead of being gently helped to his feet he was yanked roughly upwards and pushed against the wall. His head was still pounding from being banged on the pew, and spots darkened his vision even further.

"You knew these people?"

That voice, trembling with barely-contained rage.

 _Jauffre._ Brother Jauffre, keeper of many secrets. The secrets that Reynald should not have known.

The monk was not so meek and soft-spoken now. He used one hand to keep Reynald pinned to the wall, while the other gripped the hilt of his sword, the curved point just an inch from Reynald's neck.

Before Reynald could gather enough breath to answer, Jauffre assaulted him with even more questions.

"Who do you answer to? What do you know? What did they say to you? _What have you DONE?_ "

Reynald still couldn't speak – he wasn't certain if it was Jauffre's anger that frightened him so much, or if it was the tip of his longsword at his throat.

"I... I don't know..." Reynald mumbled.

"Speak up." Jauffre was so close that spittle flew onto Reynald's face.

"I don't – didn't know them, not these two. There were others. I was approached... not long before the Emperor was murdered."

Reynald swallowed before continuing. He was dead either way, he may as well give him the full story.

"They knew... knew that I had connections to Weynon Priory. To... you, Jauffre."

"What did they want from Weynon Priory? What did they _know?_ "

"They didn't know much. Someone – I don't know who – someone very close to the Emperor told them about a hidden bastard. By the Nine, I had no idea any of this would happen. I thought – I thought it was politics, you know? Royals off each other all the time, you know?"

Jauffre was silent as Reynald rambled, and he remained silent for a long while after.

"What did you tell them?" he finally said, through clenched teeth.

"To be perfectly honest, I didn't know much. I saw some of the Kvatch letters – I swear I wasn't looking on purpose, I was looking for an inkwell and – begging your pardon, the bundle was right there out in the open on your desk. Couldn't help but read it. At the time I suppose I thought you had a son you never told us about, but there were no specific names or locations I could give them... didn't expect them to, to burn it all, Kvatch..." he trailed off.

Silence again. Not the sort of peaceful quiet in a tomb. This was the terrible, static silence right before a hurricane. And Jauffre was dangerously calm, though Reynald knew a great storm was brewing within him.

"And if only this man had died, rather than an entire city, you would have slept soundly at night?"

Reynald's head bobbed up and down dumbly.

Yes. Yes, he would have.

"And for _what?"_

"Gold. Lots of it. Five hundred drakes, up front. You don't understand, sire. I was desperate, couldn't keep a job, had nowhere to stay at night and winter was fast approaching-"

"You could have come back to the Priory," Jauffre said, his eyes cold steel.

Reynald had no answer. There were no excuses. Even now, he had a hard time explaining _why_ he did it, but it was done, and too many people had to pay the price for that blood money.

Jauffre released his grip on Reynald. Then, curiously he began rifling through the robes of the dead with intent, as if searching for something in particular. He tossed a coin purse in Reynald's direction, but it landed on the ground in front of him. Gold spilled out the opening.

"Is that not what you wanted? Is that not what you have betrayed us for?" he muttered, now turning the Dunmer's body over and searching through her pockets, patting down the robes methodically. Had he done this before? "Oh, if only you knew the chaos you have unleashed on Tamriel for five hundred drakes, Reynald Jemane."

Clearly, Jauffre knew a lot more than he was letting on. Reynald wondered if he was even a real monk.

He dared ask a question of his own.

"That Martin fellow, the priest in the dirty robes, is he truly the son of the late Emperor? What does he have to do with... with all this madness?"

Unsurprisingly, Jauffre chose not to answer.

Reynald took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.

"What are you going to do with me?" he asked, hesitantly.

Jauffre stepped away from the bodies, sighing in frustration at not finding whatever it was he was looking for. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned to face Reynald again. He was unsettled that he could not see his expression in the darkness.

"Good question. I could have you executed for treason, but that wouldn't solve anything, would it?"

Reynald didn't know what to say, so he only shook his head.

"I know you loved Prior Maborel. Obviously not as much as he loved you, but you cared for him all the same. I know that deep down, _somewhere_ in that blackened heart of yours, you regret what you have done. I am prepared to spare you for now, under certain conditions."

Reynald's nose stung. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Just kill me," he pleaded. Whatever Jauffre had in store for him, it did not sound pleasant at all.

"No. I still have a use for you." Jauffre glanced over at the Prior's body, which had not stirred despite all the commotion in the chapel. "He was fond of you, you know. After word came around of your... reputation in town, despite our teachings, we both were saddened that we had presumably failed in bringing you up. I had the nerve to suggest you may have simply been a bad seed. Want to know what he said?"

Reynald waited for Jauffre to continue.

"'If a seed does not grow, no matter how lovingly it is nurtured, look at where it has been planted. There is a beautiful white orchid that blooms amidst the arid sands of the Ali'kr desert. But would we be able to plant it in our garden between the Wormwood and Lady's Mantle? Nay, it would wither and die in the wet, cold soil. Reynald lost his parents when he was just old enough to miss them, along with the home he once had. He is not a bad seed, and we are not lousy gardeners. He resented the Priory and all that it represented for him. The only way that Reynald can thrive is if he finds a calling that truly makes him happy, a place where he can finally lay his roots. I believe in him, as should you, Brother Jauffre.' That's what he said to me. Alas, he was a better man than I am, but I believe he would have wanted me to give you another chance."

Reynald found himself shaking his head, silent tears streaming down his cheeks.

He'd let everyone down, hadn't he?

He too would have agreed with Jauffre, assumed he was just a bad seed, compared to perfect Brother Piner. Reynald had never been able to explain why he had turned out like this, when the monks had treated him so kindly. It was in his nature to be bad, so he thought.

And yet Prior Maborel still believed in him? He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and he realized it was Brother Jauffre's.

"Well then," Jauffre said, the sardonic bite returning to his voice. He squeezed Reynald's shoulder, tighter. "Are you ready to bloom, orchid?"


	14. Ardaline

**Imperial City, Green Emperor Way**

 **30 Frostfall, 3E 433**

 **9:00 AM**

Ardaline had been to the Imperial City before.

She had known this city well, in her days as a pupil at the Arcane University. It looked like a wagon wheel on a map.

If each of the districts were spaced between the spokes of the wheel, the Imperial Palace at the White-Gold Tower was the hub at the very center.

But never had she visited the seat of the Empire before. Not until today.

Ardaline did not believe in miracles. This was nothing more than lucky timing.

If being driven to submit a transfer request as a result of that scapegrace that haunted her at the Bravil chapter of the Mages Guild could be considered fortunate.

At least something good had come of that ordeal.

The young alchemist arrived at the circular garden surrounding Green Emperor Way in her indigo university robes, as these were the finest clothes she owned. She had to scrub out some older stains – glow dust in its luminescence tended to show remarkably well on dark blue, and at this point she could forget about getting rid of the dark greasy spots which she guessed were from troll fat. No one would be close enough to see _that_ , would they?

Ardaline hoped if she kept her hands folded behind her back when in the presence of the High Chancellor or anyone else of importance, no one would notice that the edges of her sleeves were singed from an unfortunate incident involving fire salts.

Ardaline swallowed as the shadow of the White-Gold Tower drew closer.

The Altmer remembered another tower. Crystal-Like-Law, unsurpassed in its splendor, even in comparison to the Imperial Palace. She had gazed after it every night from her home in Cloudrest. Her father told her that the Crystal Tower was the cradle of magicka on this mortal plane. Volanair, the House's seneschal, claimed it was the key to the Altmer's eventual ascent to the stars.

Of course, the White-Gold Tower before her could not come close to Crystal-Like-Law's beauty or importance, but the elven influences in its architecture were apparent. She knew, some time ago, the tribal, illiterate Cyrods had viciously slaughtered the Ayleids and appropriated the Tower for their own, advancing their heathen race with the cultural and technological achievements of the elves before them. At least, that was how the story went according to the books in Summerset.

She walked through Green Emperor Way, past the headstones of the previous members of the Septim Dynasty with grandiose Imperial names. Many of the epitaphs were worn to unreadability by the elements, but she peered at a few. Andronicus Septim. Father of Pelagius I. Died in the first year of the Third Era, followed by his wife Basilica a decade later. What an odd place for a cemetery, Ardaline thought, but perhaps it was the notion that the close relatives of the Emperors and Empresses of the past could watch over their descendants sitting on the Ruby Throne. Or something along those lines.

Yet... Ardaline couldn't help but wonder. There must have been at least a thousand tombstones here. And they could not even find a single heir to continue the dynasty? No distant blood relatives? No bastards, or children of bastards...

Perhaps it was not her place to think of such things.

Ardaline shuddered. She couldn't help but feel nervous, approaching the palace looking the way she did. Her attire was... unsuitable, to say the least, for the holder of as prestigious a position as the one she had been offered.

It would all be fine, she kept telling herself. What was the worst that could happen? Some noble would scoff at her clothing?

Maybe they would. Ardaline had been a bastard in her father's court in Cloudrest before his wife had her banished as soon as she came of age. And though she had never been afforded the same privileges as her half-brothers and sisters, she had seen what the gentry wore, and she had seen what the lowborn wore.

In this moment, Ardaline appeared positively lowborn.

That familiar nausea returned to the pit of her stomach. It was a sudden lurch in her tightening abdomen, that feeling from so long ago, and more than anything she wanted to shrink into herself until she disappeared.

At her father's court she was expected to remain unseen. Her footsteps could never be too loud and she wasn't allowed to speak unless directly asked a question and she couldn't sit at the table with the rest of the family until after they had their fill. At least the servants earned their keep; Ardaline was just another mouth to feed, a living, breathing reminder of her father's shame.

She had to remind herself that none of this should even matter. She was not here as a debutante, trying to impress a prince or some rot like that; she had been summoned to the Imperial Palace as a respected professional in her field.

As the provisional Royal Alchemist.

A _title._

The very notion took her breath away.

Ardaline stepped beneath a colonnade to rest a moment. She leaned back against a column, facing the soaring White-Gold tower that sparkled so brilliantly in the sunlight she had to shield her eyes. Standing here in this circular garden with trim grass she examined the neat rows of blue and purple Viper's Bugloss outlining the path. The flowers had been cultivated simply to look pretty, not for their alchemical properties.

Ardaline may have very well been the plainest thing here.

Suddenly, the doors to the palace burst open. An Imperial lady of perhaps around forty years (though it was often difficult for Ardaline to tell; the races of Men aged so quickly), accompanied by a palace guard in plate armor following closely behind. They were heading in the Altmer's direction.

Ardaline sucked in her breath, straightened her posture. She held her hands behind her back as the woman approached.

Pale of skin, with striking blue eyes, she was garbed in a modest black dress buttoned all the way to the neck, hair covered with a black wimple. A moonstone pendant on a silver chain dangled halfway down her chest.

The lady in black curled her lips inward so that her mouth was a dour, straight line. With one sweeping glance she scrutinized Ardaline in that _way_ that nobles so often did, that discerning first look from which one could all at once estimate social position, and relative wealth.

"Are you lost?" asked the lady in black. Stern, she sounded, but not unkind. The palace guard stood several paces behind, inscrutable under all of the armor.

Ardaline felt her face flush.

"No, my lady. I was summoned by High Chancellor Ocato."

The woman raised her blonde eyebrows, so light that they nearly disappeared against her papery skin.

"Oh?"

Ardaline brought her hands around to retrieve the summons from her pocket.

The lady in black's gaze flitted to the burns on her sleeves. Ardaline's heart sank.

The letter was worn from having been perused a hundred times over, to the point where she had committed it to memory. She presented it to the Imperial woman, holding her breath in the hope that her hand would not tremble so much.

The lady in black took it in her own gloved hand, taking notice of the diamond-shaped wax seal. Her eyes moved as she read the letter. Less than thirty seconds passed, but it was an uncomfortable silence all the same.

Then, with a brief nod at Ardaline, she folded and returned the paper.

"I see. We have been expecting you. Welcome to the Imperial Palace, Ardaline of Cloudrest."

"Thank you, my lady."

"Please. Call me Lavinia."

Lavinia Septim. Ardaline knew that name well. Widow of Crown Prince Geldall Septim, who was heir apparent to the Empire. At least, before his tragic assassination. Lavinia had always been the subject of gossip, even before the succession crisis, as soon as word surfaced that she was barren. Renowned healers and alchemists had been called from Necrom to Daggerfall, all of their treatments proving fruitless. Lavinia had never been able to bear Prince Geldall a child. Now that there were no heirs to be found, Geldall's widow unfortunately shouldered much of the blame, for it was in poor taste to denounce the dead Princes Ebel, Enman, and Geldall, no matter how disconcerting it was that all three were in their fifties and childless.

Lavinia excused herself for whatever doubtlessly important matters she had to attend to, leaving the palace guard to escort Ardaline inside.

"After me," he said in a gruff voice, walking ahead. Ardaline blinked, then quickened her pace to catch up to his long strides.

Her trunk containing her alchemy apparatuses had not yet arrived, she was told, but she would be staying in the basement, close to her predecessor's alchemy laboratory. Out of sight, she thought, just as she liked it. No one would try to bother her while she was doing her work. Her colleague Sinderion shared that sentiment. Ardaline wondered why he had not been summoned for this position instead. To call him a genius would be putting it mildly; Ardaline had the rare privilege of studying under him in Skingrad for three months, and in those few months she learned more about alchemy than she had during her two years at the Arcane University.

Certainly High Chancellor Ocato would have sent for him first, given his impressive reputation among scholarly circles. Then again, Ardaline knew Sinderion well enough to know that he likely refused, if asked. If he had ended his residency at the University because of their restrictions, he would be most unhappy at the royal court. Sinderion disliked boundaries placed upon his work. Actually, Sinderion disliked working for others in the first place.

Ardaline wondered how the master alchemist was coping with the Oblivion Crisis. Last she heard, he was still fixed on his nirnroot obsession. In all honesty, she wasn't certain if the Crisis would even affect him. He'd just continue with his work, blissfully detached from the rest of the world in the comfort of his basement laboratory. She wanted to write him soon, inform him of her recent promotion.

* * *

"Don't forget what 'provisional' means," the steward reminded her the day her trunk arrived from Bravil. He was a persnickety Imperial by the name of Quintus, a young-faced man with peppery hair, already graying from the stress of his position.

Ardaline did not respond. She was unpacking her few belongings, including her alchemy apparatuses. She unwrapped her glass alembic and placed it on the table, examining it closely for any chips or scratches in the glass.

"What I'm saying is, don't get too comfortable," Quintus added, as if to confirm that she had heard him the first time.

Ardaline finally looked up at him, into his dark eyes that always seemed to be squinted as if he needed spectacles.

"I won't," she promised. Then, she wiped the fingerprints off the alembic with a cloth.

* * *

The doors to the council chambers were typically closed shut, but they were open the next Loredas when Ardaline was heading out. She slowed her pace when she noticed the wide entrance to the near-empty room, peering inside out of sheer curiosity.

That was the first time she saw High Chancellor Ocato.

Gracing the marble floor the regent stood straight as a tower in his silk burgundy garment, decorated with the chains of his office.

Quintus was the only other person in the room, and he looked even more flustered than usual.

"Your honor, it pains me to bother you with this yet again..." the nervous steward started. He had a quill pen behind his ear and was still carrying an abacus.

Ocato crossed his arms, looking an impenetrable fortress.

Even his golden complexion was smooth and unblemished to the point where Ardaline could not discern his age. There always were certain 'tells' that Altmer noticed in one another, such as the thin smiles and blank stares of the very old compared to the markedly more emotive youngsters, but High Chancellor Ocato had an assured tranquility about him that shrouded the truth from Ardaline. He could have been thirty-two or one hundred and two and she would not have known the difference.

"What is it, Quintus?"

"It's... _her._ The Hero of Kvatch. Demanding to see you again. She doesn't seem to understand the word 'no.'"

"She knows my answer. What more does she want?" Ocato's voice was calm, though still bore an imposing regality.

"A different answer, I suppose. Should I have the guards remove her from the palace grounds?"

Ocato shook his head slowly. His sand-colored hair was neat and glossy, not a single strand out of place.

"The Hero of Kvatch is at present not threatening anyone's safety. I guarantee you she will tire of this and leave once she realizes this is all a waste of her time."

"But your honor, she has become a nuisance. Soliciting the courtiers as they come and go, saying all sorts of things, and the common folk adore her, of course, for what she's done in Kvatch and the rest of the countryside... they listen to her. What if she began to speak ill of you? Your honor, I have no doubt she could incite a rebellion if she desired."

"The palace gardens are open to the public," the High Chancellor said simply, walking towards the round table at the center of the room. The chains clinked softly as he moved. "Are we to use force on every individual expressing discontent with the Empire, or my decisions? I hardly find that reasonable. Let her speak all she wants. My answer has not changed."

Then, Ocato glanced at the doorway, where Ardaline stood. For a moment he was looking straight at her with inscrutable amber eyes, head tilting slightly as if in inquiry.

Ardaline gasped. She turned on her heel, but before she could run, a courier in a great hurry brushed past her.

"Battlemage- High Chancellor Ocato!" he cried out. He was in a lot of distress. Breathing heavily, shiny with sweat.

Ocato made a gesture for the courier to continue.

"Ah! Y-your honor! I have news from Summerset. P-perhaps you would prefer to hear it alone?" the courier asked, glancing at Quintus.

Summerset? Ardaline's heart quickened. Yet Ocato remained poised and dignified as always.

"Whatever you can say to me, you can say in front of my steward."

The courier handed Ocato a folded piece of parchment crumpled even worse than Ardaline's summons.

"The... it's the Crystal Tower. It fell to the Daedric forces on Fredas after a month-long siege."

Time stopped. Ardaline tried to inhale but something sharp had stabbed her lungs and she could not breathe.

In the other room Ocato stood motionless, and Ardaline knew not if she were watching him stand there for a minute or an hour. She could feel the darkness swallowing her entirely and she couldn't breathe.

Ocato moved to the table, gripping the back of a chair with a hand. He was trembling, blanching, yet he still remained calm.

"Thank you. You are dismissed," he said to the courier. Then, to Quintus, "Isn't there something else you ought to be doing?"

That was the last thing Ardaline heard before everything went black.

When she came to, she realized she was on the cold marble floor and her head was pounding.

She desperately tried to draw air into her shuddering lungs. Short, agonized breaths. Panic seized her chest. This wasn't happening. Crystal-Like-Law would never fall, not like this, no, it could not be... if Crystal-Like-Law were to fall, so too would the Summerset Isles.

What of her family, in Cloudrest? Had the city been overrun too? Each thought led to another, and she could only assume that everyone she ever knew in Summerset was dead if Crystal-Like-Law now lay in ruins.

The steward noticed the alchemist on the floor as he walked out the room. "Ah! Miss Ardaline," he said, holding a hand out to her. His voice sounded distant, but she took his hand to help herself up.

"I... gods, I... I don't know what to say. I'm sorry. You don't look well. Shall I find a healer?" Quintus asked. Again, she did not know if these words were even said, if this exchange were even happening. His face was a featureless blur to Ardaline.

The Altmer took a step backwards, then another. She saw images of the Crystal Tower in her mind, of the red Oblivion sky and smoke rising in ribbons from its spires, of the white stones crumbling to the ground while the terrified refugees fled from the endless sea of Daedra.

Elder magic had been woven in the foundation of the Crystal Tower and could be found in each stone. It radiated with the light of Aetherius. How could something Aetherial be destroyed?

What did this mean for the Altmer when they passed from this mortal plane?

"Miss Ardaline?"

Without any sense of where she was or where she was going, Ardaline ran.

"Oi! This isn't the Red Ring Footrace!" shouted a maid after Ardaline had nearly tumbled into her.

* * *

In the garden, Ardaline wept.

When the Daedra ravaged Snowhawk, leaving nothing standing but a broken temple, the Nords mourned its loss in songs and poems, while Ardaline felt nothing. When the Dunmer summoned the Ald Skar to defend the city of Ald'ruhn, only to be overrun by the Daedric horde, they forsook the absent Tribunal and despaired. Again, Ardaline felt nothing.

Now... what did she feel? She could not describe it. Something intangible had been torn out of her soul and left it naked and vulnerable. She tasted the salt of her tears that would not relent, saw the blurry orbs of light when she gazed at the moons and stars above. As the violet-streaked twilight darkened into the deep blue-black of night she realized she was not wearing a cloak, but it did not matter. Her heart was already freezing over.

Once upon a time, the stars had brought her great comfort after she had moved from her homeland and could no longer see the night illuminated by the Crystal Tower from her window.

Now, the starlight that leaked from the holes in the fabric of Aetherius only mocked her.

Crystal-Like-Law had been actual, palpable proof of Altmeri divinity, an intermediary between Mundus and Aetherius.

Now...

Ardaline wondered if their souls would ever join Auri-El in eternity.

In the distance, under the fruit trees now bare a light was approaching. A pale green magical orb of light.

Perhaps it was a ghost. There _were_ an awful lot of graves out here.

No... she could hear the dead leaves crunching beneath their feet.

It looked as though this person was heading in her direction.

Probably a guard to tell her that the gardens were off-limits at this hour.

Ardaline hiccuped. She never thought this would ever happen, but she didn't even care that someone might see her in the dreadful state she was in.

Where was she again?

Right, she was sitting on a marble bench in the palace gardens. She had to keep reminding herself that she still existed, that time had not stopped for everyone else as it had for her but was moving at the same rate, and the people in the city were all going on with their lives.

As the light drew closer, Ardaline could hear a faint clinking, like the chains on the High Chancellor's robes. She sniffled, took several sharp breaths and attempted to cease her sobbing. Perhaps if she could be quiet they would turn around and leave.

But no such thing happened.

The illuminated stranger stopped directly in front of the bench she sat on. Ardaline held her breath but she still hiccuped inside her throat, like the croak of a frog. The light from their spell washed over her face, and she knew they could see her tear-streaked face and crinkled unbraided hair. Not that that mattered.

"I knew I heard someone out here. May I sit with you?" came a familiar, composed voice. Anxiety gripped her, though she knew not why she was afraid.

She gazed up.

He was not a ghost, though he looked just as pale in the magical light. Yet it was undoubtedly him, High Chancellor Ocato, still dressed in his official robes, the chains glistening from the glow of his spell. His eyes were those of an older Mer than the one she had seen in the council hall.

And though he stood just as tall as he had before, he seemed tired... his face was so colorless he looked as if he needed a healer.

Or, perhaps he too was dying on the inside.

"Your honor...?" Ardaline breathed. She gathered her skirts to stand, but the High Chancellor shook his head.

"We need not stand on ceremony at this hour. You and I... in this moment, we are Altmer first. Now, may I sit with you a moment, or is it solitude you desire?"

Ardaline moved on the bench so that the High Chancellor could join her. With a rustle of heavy fabric he lowered himself on the side to the right of her. She stared into her lap, afraid even to look at him. Trying to hold her breath again but another sob escaped her.

"You'll have to pardon me. I have seen you at court, yet I'm afraid I do not even know your name," the High Chancellor admitted. His voice sounded unstable, like a branch in the wind, ready to break at any moment.

"Ardaline," she mumbled. "I'm the... alchemist. Only been here a... a week," she managed to utter.

"Ardaline. Yes, I recall that name. I hope you'll forgive me. My duties kept me from welcoming you to the palace sooner. You're not from Cyrodiil either, are you? I hail from Firsthold myself."

"I wasn't too far from there. In... C-Cloudrest."

"On the mountain?"

"Yes. I saw it from my window. Crystal-Like-Law," she blurted. Ocato was silent, as if waiting for her to continue. She took a deep breath, gaining confidence. She stared at her hands, closing them into fists and then opening them again.

"I... remember. Every single night, I would look out and see it. Glowing like starlight... I thought, I thought if something so beautiful existed in this mortal plane, then... perhaps... our lives on Mundus were not as empty and bleak as we believed."

Ardaline rubbed her eyes. Ocato's light spell slowly faded and they were both sitting in darkness. She thought she heard him sniff.

"What are we going to do now?" she asked.

A beat. "I don't know," Ocato admitted. His voice sounded smaller, even more tenuous than before. "I... don't know," he repeated. "I'm sorry. You should never have to hear that from the one you look to for leadership. But I..."

The High Chancellor's voice cracked. Somehow, this made Ardaline afraid. He had been so poised and dignified before. If he was falling apart, then what did that mean for the rest of the Empire...?

"I am so sorry, Ardaline. I can't... I know that words alone cannot ease your pain, but... Crystal-Like-Law has fallen under my regency. For this... as High Chancellor, I apologize to you. This never should have happened. It is so wrong..."

Ardaline did not know what to say. How could she even begin to respond to something like this?

She choked on her breath. Tears were stinging her eyes again.

Somehow, the High Chancellor still had the strength to speak.

"With that being said, is there anything... anything at all that I may do for you? If you have relatives in Summerset, I could see to it that my people get in contact with someone who may know of their fate..." Ocato trailed off. He seemed... almost fragile, feebly trying to be of use, when he knew that everything was futile.

Ardaline shook her head. Then, realizing that Ocato would not be able to see that in the darkness, she swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to speak.

"No. If they are alive... they wouldn't care to hear from me."

"I see... that is most unfortunate. I hope you know that your presence is welcome at the palace."

"Thank you," Ardaline said, choosing not to repeat what his steward had said to her earlier.

She closed her eyes, and several minutes might have flown by. She had truly lost all sense of time, but when she opened her eyes again Ocato was still there. His mere presence gave her some comfort, if at least the knowledge that she did not have to face this grief alone. This was a pain that only another Altmer would understand.

"Ardaline..." Ocato finally broke the silence.

There was another pause. The only sound came from the chirping of the crickets. A chill wind caught them. Ardaline shivered.

"May I sit with you here a while longer?" he asked. It almost sounded like a plea.

"Please," Ardaline said. Perhaps that was the only thing the High Chancellor could do for her in that moment, and she for him. Sitting together in mutual understanding as they both contemplated in silence what the present events meant for the future. For a while she even forgot he was regent of all the Empire.

Crystal-Like-Law was gone from this mortal plane. But they still had to continue living.


	15. Mannimarco

**20 Hearthfire, 3E 433**

The hidden moon watched over his demesne.

Hidden, but not dead, unlike the other moons. He was not at all like Jone and Jode, molded like clay from the trickster's flesh.

No, he had never felt as alive as he did in this state. It was only appropriate he would be called the Revenant, for his ascent was more like a rebirth. He could read the words in the stars, hear the echoes of eternity. He was the color of night and he could swim across the sky unseen.

As the other moons, the Revenant waned and waxed in a cycle of eight phases, and on this night he was the strongest, glowing violet-black, as his loyal reveled in his gift to the mortal world.

He had earned many epithets in his time on the mortal plane, yet the mettled few once called him 'Mannimarco.'

Now, he was neither here nor there, but he was everywhere and nowhere all the same. He existed because he willed it. That had been the secret word painted on the Aurbis with a brush dipped in violent starlight.

And while he was content to merely observe Dawn's Beauty as it destroyed itself from within, tonight his gaze lingered on the city of Firsthold for a moment longer.

Firsthold. An epoch of his mortal life had been spent here. Much had changed since Galerion's folly; Vanus Galerion was now a rotting corpse and Mannimarco was the moon. Oh, but Mannimarco did remember the flaunting, grandiose towers, the paths paved with white stones, canals with water clear as diamonds.

With delight he rejoiced at the knowledge that strongest mages of Galerion's precious guild (long since appropriated and corrupted by Imperial influence; Vanus himself would have been scandalized) still struggled to hold back the Daedric forces at the gates of their fair city. Soon, corpses would litter the streets they kept so clean, and blood would run through the canals.

As he thought upon Firsthold's inevitable demise, he did happen to consider how Morgiah was implicated in all of this. For a mortal, she had been special to him, in a way he found it difficult to describe. It was not love that he felt for her, such a concept he already knew to be an illusion propagated by fools who desired to add meaning to their short-lived existence, but perhaps Mannimarco did hold a certain fascination towards Morgiah, for the machinery in her mind spun a different direction than that of most other mortals.

Not only that, she had expedited the process to his divinity. All she asked in return was his aid in her ascent to the throne of Firsthold. A task for a child, not the King of Worms!

For all that she had given him, he would have usurped the Dragon Throne for her. Or, even further, he could have made her _his_ queen!

And yet... even now, as she was aware of his omniscience, she made no further demands of him!

He waited years and years for Queen Morgiah to speak his name into her scrying orb, to make another request of the King of Worms.

Yet her crystal orb collected dust and she never so much as whispered his name in her sleep.

Tonight, he decided, he would call upon her unbidden.

In her chambers, behind the velvet curtains of her regal bed carved from ivory, she slept soundly, a soft smile on her dark lips as she dreamed of her future reign.

She had reason to be pleased; her dear husband, the King Reman Karoodil had fallen in battle hours earlier while he commanded the troops storming the Oblivion gate outside the city.

Morgiah was besides herself with grief when she received the news, nearly fainting upon the divan, but Mannimarco had seen the secret smile behind her tears, the gleam in her red eyes. She did not plan for this to happen, but this happy accident was easier than what her own machinations might have required.

" _Morgiah..."_

Presently he took no physical form, manifesting only as a voice within her head.

She stirred, opening one eye, then the other, still unsure if he were merely a dream. She pulled the satin sheets over herself and turned on her side, happily able to stretch her legs out across the space that she once had to share with the king.

" _I see you have lost no sleep over your dear husband's demise."_

This time, Morgiah's glowing red eyes shot open.

"Oh, how monstrous you must think I am!" she exclaimed to the entity she knew too well, yet could not see. She rose, pushing through the curtains of her bed that he was causing to billow. A scowl overtaking her face as she glanced around the room, Morgiah's bare feet touched the ground. Her thick black hair whipped about in snaky tendrils on Mannimarco's invisible wind.

" _There is a monster that lurks within all of us. Even you, dear Princess,"_ he crooned, still as the disembodied voice within her mind.

The wind revealed itself as inky black wisps, which coalesced around his presence as he descended without invitation into her royal bedchamber. The black magic twisted and warped into a singular figure and Mannimarco materialized before her in a corporeal form she would recognize. The Altmer priest whose body he had inhabited when first they met. Though the physical body would be nothing more than dry bones in the years he'd left it abandoned it on Mundus, Mannimarco's present state allowed him to project himself as any form he desired.

It was a rather strange notion that he had once been bound to the physical limitations of that mortal plane, even after he had eluded the boundaries of Arkay's cycle for millennia he could see his unnaturally prolonged life on Mundus and all of his accomplishments before him as nothing more than a miniscule tear in the fabric of time. It felt as if his apotheosis occurred an unfathomable eternity ago, though he knew less than three decades had passed since he met the Dunmer princess who would help him become the secret moon. He remembered their first night well, and he remembered what a contrast Morgiah appeared against the colorless gray death of the crypt, so sanguinary and alive in her crimson dress with ribbons flowing from her sleeves as she danced unafraid among his legions of the dead. He always remembered her wearing red, of any shade. Even at this hour of the night she slipped on a wine-colored dressing gown over her chemise at his arrival, as if she still needed to play at modesty around him.

Morgiah's frown deepened. "I am no longer a princess. You were the one thatsaw to that."

"Ah, yes. The Black Queen, they call you now? Hardly a flattering title. You've let your herd wander astray..."

"Oh, my subjects have _never_ been particularly fond of me. But imagine how satisfying it feels! The haughty Altmer who are loathe to the idea of a Dunmer queen are forced to commit sacrilege by bending their knee to me! All the while helpless to stop my dark children from ascending to the throne to rule over them in the generations to come. You must understand better than anyone, Mannimarco. If all the world despises me, it is proof I have won."

Mannimarco grinned at her wickedness. This was all a game to her. Surely she had plans that extended beyond Firsthold, though she chose not to reveal them at this time. "Ah, this is why I am fond of you, Morgiah."

Morgiah laughed.

"And _you_ may very well be the single most reviled individual in Tamriel!"

"Spare me; I'm blushing."

Morgiah paced about the room now, only briefly meeting the eyes of Mannimarco's physical projection.

"To what, then, that I owe the privilege of your visit to?"

"Yourself," Mannimarco answered simply. He walked across to her bureau, also of white ivory. The desktop was cluttered with soul gems and tomes that indicated she was studying enchanting in her spare time. Mannimarco lifted an empty soul gem from the desk between his thumb and forefinger. In his grasp the gem corrupted, darkness spreading across its chalky surface from his fingertips like black frost on a window. When the soul gem was completely black, he replaced it on her bureau.

"You have not called upon me in many years, not even when you know you have my favor."

"What favor could I ask of you? You have already given me what I desired, and you _know_ how much I dislike being indebted to others. If I asked for another favor, you'd merely swoop into my chambers _again_ expecting something from _me_ ," the Dunmer queen stated, pursing her lips as she stared at the blackened soul gem which seemed to pique her curiosity more than Mannimarco himself. "What did you do to it?" she asked.

Mannimarco smirked at her. Though inferior in nearly every other way, it was true that these physical bodies were far more expressive than his shifting cosmic form. "I have opened its potential. Perhaps you ought to attempt to capture different types of souls than you normally would... you may be surprised."

"Do you mean... the souls of mer and men?" There was that glint in her eyes again, that living spark.

"Beastfolk too, though your kin are lief to believe they possess no souls."

Sitting now in the chair at her bureau Morgiah puffed up her chest indignantly, letting out a slow exhale as she took the gem in the palm of her hand, staring contemplatively.

"In truth, I imagined you would have forgotten me by now," she admitted, chemise swishing as she crossed one leg over the other. An interesting smile graced her lips, a wicked, private pleasure in the thought the King of Worms might be at her beck and call. Oh, and he could do most anything she desired. He had the power now, but did she have desires?

It was almost painful to him that he knew so little of her motives, her dark hopes and dreams. And she seemed to relish his disquietude, of that he had no doubt!

"You, Morgiah, have captured my immortal fancy."

The Dunmer twisted in her seat. Mannimarco walked behind her, took her shoulders in his hands. He could feel her shudder at his touch as he began to knead the muscles in her back, and indeed, even he found it remarkable that the same hands that wrought corruption and despair could treat this singular mortal so gently.

Her soul... he could feel it pulsing deep within her consciousness, and he knew it to be of a tantalizingly powerful variety. Mannimarco chose not to harvest it from her, though he would have snatched it in an instant were she any other. She was one of the rare few mortals more interesting to him alive than dead. One of the rare mysteries he could never explain.

Some little time had passed and they found themselves on Morgiah's bed, her crawling over him like a black spider eagerly anticipating her prey. He was ready to take her, not in carnal embrace like she might have experienced before, no, he was ready to take her to Aetherius and back, show her the words written in the stars and brush away the clouds in her mind that fogged her true potential, to expose before her Arkay's lies and the fallacy of being. She could be Queen Of All Dead Things in his demesne if she willed it, and he would not cease until she did.

And then... just as he was about to take her in his arms...

Morgiah abruptly froze. She had become absolutely still as if all time had stopped for her.

He looked at her face which had ceased all movement.

Swampy hair draping over her shoulders, her lips were parted in arousal as she poised above him with her back arched cat-like, eager to know all that he offered, yet...

She had simply... stopped.

Something was amiss.

With Morgiah still hanging over him Mannimarco dissolved into his incorporeal form, yet the bedroom had become a prison.

Instead of using his power to break through the magical barriers he was of course capable of passing, Mannimarco simply elected to wait for the interloper to reveal themselves. He had all the time he could ever need, after all. How many enemies did he have that were powerful enough to control time? Arkay himself had little direct influence on Mundus, and none of the other gods caredenough to interfere with Mannimarco's whims.

There were few inhabiting this mortal plane that could manipulate the flow of time. The Psijics were among those few. And he already had a good idea which Psijic might have deigned to confront him so brazenly...

"Oh, Quaranir. You could have simply waited your turn if you desired me so badly," Mannimarco called out.

He had guessed correctly. The Psijic faded into view. He too was projecting an image of himself, but that was only because his physical form was elsewhere, on Artaeum, most likely. An Aldmer he was, as Mannimarco had been in his mortal lifetime. Quaranir wore the hooded gray robes of his Order that Mannimarco too had once donned, millennia ago.

They were similar, he and Quaranir, in the days when they called themselves associates, colleagues. _Friends._

United by mutual displeasure in the strictures of the Psijic Order, each now trod separate paths. Yet it was difficult to deny that they had once understood each other in a way that the rest of the Order could not.

"I cannot think of anything more repulsive," the Psijic replied.

"That's not what you said four thousand years ago, _old_ friend," Mannimarco taunted.

Quaranir's expression was unreadable.

Mannimarco continued. "What do you want, Quaranir? You've interrupted me at a most inconvenient time..."

The Psijic smiled wryly.

"Is it so strange for me to call upon an old acquaintance?

Mannimarco's reply was instant. "Yes."

What _did_ Quaranir want from him? Tonight was what his thralls called the Necromancer's Moon, when his power and influence over Mundus reached its full potential! Surely the Psijic was aware of this, that he posed no more threat to Mannimarco than an insect. Still, he would hear him out. He owed an old colleague as much.

"I do not come to you as an enemy," Quaranir said.

"Strange, considering how... _highly_ the rest of your order hold me in regard."

"No, they are less than fond of you. But they do not know I am here."

"Oh?" Mannimarco scoffed. "You chose an... _interesting_ time to confront me," he said, all at once remembering his annoyance at being interrupted. Morgiah was still on the bed, motionless, the lacy chemise bunched around her knees. _Soon_ , he thought.

"You don't make yourself easy to find. I came as soon as I could locate you. Ah..." The projection of Quaranir looked over his shoulder with some urgency. "We do not have much time before the others know that something is amiss."

"Out with it, then. Before I lose my temper."

Quaranir smiled. "We can't have that, can we?" Then, crossing his arms, he stared straight at Mannimarco. His acid-green eyes seemed to be alight in the darkness. "I'll keep it short. Loremaster Celarus... in recent years, his behavior has grown erratic."

Mannimarco let out a burst of laughter. "Celarus? That dogmatic old prig? He's the last I would expect to betray the Old Ways."

"I know. Believe me, I still find it difficult to accept. But I fear he has become misguided, all for a singular cause. Your transformation sixteen years ago caused quite a stir on Artaeum."

Mannimarco felt a certain swelling satisfaction at this. He gave Quaranir a sly grin. "Oh, I'm sure it has."

"The Order was more concerned with your ascension than with the Warp in the West itself."

"You're still trying to figure that one out, aren't you?" the necromancer taunted.

Quaranir, however, did not seem impressed. He merely shrugged.

"Regardless of how you came to power, Loremaster Celarus has allocated all of our resources, all of our time to your capture. He has thoroughly ignored the obviously more urgent crisis upon us and instead is determined with chasing your shadow. He has already pressured the Mages Guild to join our cause. I imagine you are perceptive enough to understand that Arch-Mage Traven did not mandate a guild-wide ban on necromancy on a mere whim. It had nothing to do with academia. It was always about _you_."

"Well, that's hardly fair," Mannimarco lamented. "I've been silent as the dead for sixteen years, haven't I?"

Quaranir shook his head at Mannimarco's choice of idiom. "That matters little to Celarus, given your history."

"You still haven't told me what you want from me, Quaranir. No, more importantly... what do _I_ want that you could possibly offer me?"

This time, the Psijic smiled grimly. "You mean you're not going to help me out of the kindness of your heart?"

"Perhaps... if I had a heart that wasn't black and rotten."

"Very well. I want to succeed Loremaster Celarus. I will be the new head of the Psijic Order."

Well.

 _That_ was unexpected.

Quaranir had finally piqued Mannimarco's interest. He waved his hand for the monk to continue. At last, this conversation was worth his time.

"I'll need your help. In return, once I am in power the Psijic Order will advise the Mages Guild to lift their ban on necromancy, and all of our allies will cease persecution of your devotees. You could even have some of your most worthy followers elected to the Council of Artaeum. This does not even begin to describe all that I could offer you, of course, but you will have to cooperate."

Mannimarco laughed. "Oh, Quaranir, you do tempt me so. But there is one thing I must be absolutely certain of..."

"What is that?" asked Quaranir.

"Don't worry. It will be over before you know it."

With that, Mannimarco's corporeal manifestation again dispersed into the inky wisps of his pure form.

There was, after all, only one way to confirm beyond any whisper of a doubt that Quaranir spoke truths to him.

He flew towards the transparent projection of Quaranir, tracing it back to the source, the body residing in Artaeum.

Mannimarco entered through Quaranir's soul and from there he could examine the fibers of his mind, the threads of thought and hazy memories. He was inside the Ceporah Tower now, seeing it through Quaranir's two eyes, and he realized how faulty and indistinct mortal vision was, how he could not _see_ all hidden things without the use of magicka! How unsaturated and faded now appeared the walls of meteoric glass, when Mannimarco knew they were shivering from the latent magicka within. He penetrated deep into Quaranir's mind, further, further, to the memories burned into his soul...

 _When the quarantine was lifted and he could return to Lillandril, the town was barren and a painted black cross marked nearly every door. The only living souls that remained were the body counters wearing beak masks. They roamed the streets like ghouls in black gloves and black robes, tossing bodies onto wagons to be carted to the city limits. Never had he ever felt so alone, so isolated..._

Too deep. Mannimarco receded, not yet feeling resistance. For he could spend an eternity within another's mind while less than a second of Mundial time transpired. What a wonderful period the Thrassian Plague of the First Era had been for Mannimarco's research. A pity that Quaranir could not appreciate it as he did.

He scoured the Psijic's mind for more relevant information. Any being's mind was a bundle of memories and thoughts tangled together like yarn; a personal reminder to buy grain at the market while there was still a surplus could be in the same cluster as a childhood memory of jumping into a lake in the cold of Frostfall to impress the other children.

 _Crack._ Like the spark of magicka firing. Then another crack. Then twenty more. Mannimarco's grasp on Quaranir was relenting, his foothold in his mind was slipping...

And then...

He was severed, ripped out as if by iron claws.

And then he felt naked and vulnerable, like a newborn first brought into this world from the safety of its mother's womb, only to be tossed carelessly to the ground and pushed down by thousands of invisible hands.

He had no lungs to breathe from but he felt as if he were being suffocated.

Mannimarco's severed spirit was trapped in the circular room of the Ceporah Tower, thirty-three hooded faces staring down at him with their arms outstretched, the continuous beams of magicka that streamed from their hands stripping him of everything, unraveling his very _being._

He had been fooled.

Ambushed by the monks of the Psijic Order.

And now he could feel himself disappearing. His influence... his godhood, torn from him as if they were clipping the wings from a bird.

Then, the world went dark. He was not the Moon. He was nothing. No, he was the closest thing to nothing while still being something, a barely-there, an imprint, an after-image.

" _Mannimarco? Where did you go?"_

Morgiah! A sliver of his being still remained in her chambers in Firsthold, though his perception was fading fast and he could only hear, not see.

Mannimarco had no mouth to scream from, to shout her name.

She was upset, annoyed that he had vanished before her eyes. As if he had left on his own accord and had not been tortured and ripped apart by the Psijic Order!

"Hmph. Am I too _fresh_ for your taste? Don't you dare try to come back," she spat with the bitterness of one scorned. And then he heard her no longer.

The cold realization came to him gradually, still lulled by the dull comfort of the faint whispers of his devoted acolytes across Tamriel.

Mannimarco knew precisely what awaited him when the whispers ceased.

The silence, the pain of a half-existence when thousands of years passed and no one would remember his name, his soul would still persist in some kind of tortuous limbo, nameless, formless, screaming without words.

Unless...


	16. Edla Dark-Heart

**2 Sun's Dusk, 3E 433**

 **Jerall Mountains**

 **5:45 AM**

One eye closed. The other on the hart.

Arrow nocked past her cheek, as tight as the bowstring would allow her.

Edla held her breath.

The shot was clear as day. Edla would not have another.

The hart nudged the fresh snow with his hoof to uncover a milk thistle, then lowered his antlered head to eat the flower...

 _ **DING! DONG. DING! DONG. DING! DONG.**_

Edla was three miles away from the Bruma city gates, yet the sound of the temple bells still rang clear enough to unsteady her aim. Showers of powdery snow fell from the pine trees, followed by rapid fluttering as the birds took flight immediately at the sound.

Edla released the bowstring, but it was too late. The iron-tipped arrow fell neatly in the snow where it would have stuck the deer in the neck.

With astounding speed, the hart had already leaped over a tree stump and bounded into the woods, disappearing in the thick pine forest, leaving no traces save for its hoof prints in the snow.

Unprecedented anger surged through her blood. Edla kicked the snow with her boot in frustration. That might have been the last hart until spring, and she was not going to try her luck with finding any other game along the mountainside for the rest of the morning now that they had all been spooked by the loud noise.

Two hours of tracking, wasted.

Three chimes?

Three meant a hanging. There was going to be a hanging in the castle square at sunrise.

Well. That was something that didn't happen every day.

Edla whistled.

After a moment, a scruffy, dark-furred mutt was trotting happily in Edla's direction. She stared up at the hunter with expectant brown eyes, sitting obediently on her hind legs. With a gloved hand, Edla patted the dog on the head.

"Come on, Bones," Edla said, clicking her tongue for the dog to follow. She slung the canvas bag over her shoulder, wishing it were heavier. She had trapped two rabbits, both a bit scrawny, but it was better than nothing. In these early winter months the hunter never expected much.

As Edla began the trek back to Bruma, tracing her way to the main road by her footprints in the snow, it occurred to her how much she enjoyed the solitude of the hunt, and how little she wanted to return to town. If it weren't for the twins she might have stayed in the wilderness forever, just her and Bones. Build a cabin hidden in the woods and live off the wilds. Self-sustaining, far away from other people. From _Regner._

The snow crunched beneath her fur boots. Edla gazed up at the lightening sky, a cool blue with the stars barely visible. A frosty gust tore through the crisp air and Edla felt lucky that she was walking downwind.

Just as she had predicted, the wilds, which might have been teeming with activity at the break of dawn, were dead silent. Even the birds did not begin their morning chattering. Perhaps they were waiting. Edla knew they were watching her, from the bushes and the trees, waiting behind rocks and stumps. Bones just trotted merrily beside her, tail still wagging.

* * *

At last, the dusky sky was streaked pink with sunlight by the time Edla reached the city gates.

Bruma. Had she not known any better, she might have thought she never left Skyrim. Greeting every traveler that came through the east gate was an enormous statue of Tiber Septim, sword in hand and armored for battle, gazing forward with fearsome intent, the belfry of the Great Chapel of Talos towering behind him. Icicles sharp as daggers hung from the eaves of every house, glistening in the morning light.

Outside of his inn situated conveniently by the east gate, Olav was dusting the snow off the roof with a broom. He waved to Edla with his free hand as she passed. Edla returned the wave. She couldn't help but smile at his friendliness. In a small town like Bruma, word traveled fast, which meant that most people already had their own ideas about Edla and if they should associate with her. Olav was one of the few that did not lower his head when Edla walked past, and for that he might have been the closest thing she had to a friend in this town. Bones immediately dashed towards the innkeeper, leaping on him with her paws on his apron, where he sometimes kept a bit of cheese for her. He was forced to stumble backwards, broom still in hand.

"Down, Bones," Edla scolded. Bones fell back to her hind legs, still panting, tail whipping the ground. The hunter walked to meet the innkeeper. "Sorry about that," she said.

Olav gave a good-natured chuckle.

"Oh, it's no trouble at all. Sorry I don't have any treats for you today, Bones," he said, bending over to scratch Bones around the ear.

Given he was doing this while wearing big woolen mittens, he was really just flopping her ears around. Not that Bones seemed to mind.

Then, he turned to Edla. "Didya hear the bells? There's going to be a hanging," he said.

Edla nodded. "I was tracking a hart. The bells scared him off when I was about to shoot."

"Ysmir's beard! A hart in the dead of winter!" Olav punched the air and shook his head. "You think he'll come back?"

"I hope he does. Don't think we'll be getting any traders from the south. The next few months will be rough."

It was odd. County Bruma still lay untouched by the Daedric forces that ravaged the rest of Tamriel. Perhaps they were too remote, too insignificant.

No, that was not it.

Edla did not believe they would be safe forever. An attack was inevitable; it was only a matter of _when_.

Olav's face turned grim. "Aye. Haven't had a caravan come 'round since Hearthfire. Roads aren't safe with the Daedra running amok. It's a damn mess, it is. Been having to water down the stew and my guests are none too pleased. But what can we do? Nothing, nothing but tighten our belts and pray to Talos this ordeal is sorted out." Olav tapped his chin. "Don't got much to worry about, if they do come 'round our gates. Captain Burd and his boys will sort them out. You'll see."

"Aye," Edla said, trying not to let her doubt show in her voice. She didn't think it was a matter of anything being "sorted out" as he kept saying. There seemed to be a kind of casual denial, even with Olav. The Mages Guild were the only ones trying to warn the rest of the town, but it seemed that everyone had their fingers stuck inside their ears. Maybe it was a stubborn Nord thing, but the people in Bruma preferred to live in the present, believing that even if they were attacked, they would be able to handle it.

No. That was all blind pride. Another unfortunate Nordic quality. If only they could accept that this was more serious than a bandit raid, that this was a real threat, one greater than any of them could even imagine, and not some glorious battle they could take to the Daedra and write songs about later...

Edla had run-ins with Daedra in the past. Fortunately, these run-ins were brief. Brief, and harrowing all the same. She knew that if the Daedra happened to launch a massive invasion on Bruma as they had done in Kvatch, Burd and the guards would be obliterated, the town following thereafter. If Snowhawk had fallen, what made them think that Bruma stood a chance?

That was why Edla still hunted, though they had enough salted meat in the cellar to last them the rest of the winter. If the Daedra ravaged the countryside, there would be no more animals left to hunt.

That was, of course, assuming that she and her family made it out alive.

After waving farewell to Olav, Edla and Bones headed to their modest abode just around the corner. Her husband Regner was already sitting out front in his usual chair, with his usual scowl.

"There's going to be a hanging," he groused. But of course Regner wasn't happy about that. If there was going to be a pardon in the castle square, he'd find reason to be bitter about that too.

Edla took a long look at the man she called husband. Hair the color of straw, and just as coarse and bristly. Soft-bodied and languid. A result of his idle lifestyle, of course. The only times he ever bothered doing any work were when he got hungry enough to cook supper.

Edla often fantasized a life away from him.

But she couldn't leave. She wanted the twins to have the childhood that Edla never had. A mother and father to love and take care of them, and most importantly, a warm house with a hearth and a roof that hardly leaked. Regner was able to provide that.

One testimony from Regner to the guards and Edla would be on the run for the rest of her life unless she wanted to be on the noose instead. And she couldn't bear the thought of Regner being the sole guardian of Mathilde and Margrethe.

The entire town already knew of Edla's sordid past, thanks to Regner's drunken boasting. Not that the guards had a lick of proof to turn her in, but they always stood up straight and watched closely whenever she walked near, waiting for her to do something wrong.

Yes, the whispers were true. Edla Dark-Heart had been an assassin in earlier years.

A very good assassin.

Not with the Brotherhood, no; if she had tried to flee from the Brotherhood she would still be running. Or dead. She was not foolish enough to join a cult. She enjoyed the freedom of working freelance. Back then, her name was Crowfeather, because of the signature black feathers attached to the shafts of her arrows.

That was a long time ago. She used goose feathers for her arrows now and took the name Edla from a headstone in Falkreath.

But one aspect of the dramatic rumors buzzing around town simply was not true. She did not flee Skyrim with the law right behind her.

The law had never caught up enough to give chase.

Nine years ago. That was when she stopped. Nine years ago, her twin daughters were born. That was the most important day of her life.

There was nothing at all that justified what she had done. She had no excuses, no rationalizations. At the time, she felt nothing; she considered herself a professional, and killing was her specialty. No, Edla did not seek absolution from the gods. Her remorseless soul was already tarnished beyond redemption. The only thing she could hope for now was a happy future for her children. Yes, her children were the only good that ever came of her.

When the girls were born, Regner offered Edla a new start in Bruma after his mother left him the house. She took it. There was no absconding involved. All that nonsense of her being an outlaw in Skyrim was just that: Nonsense. She had never been caught, and never would, if Regner kept his fool mouth shut.

"You're home early. Thought you'd be hunting all morning," Regner observed with unconcealed snide in his voice. He could find the fault in anything; truly, he could.

Shaken out of her reverie, Edla took a moment longer to think of a reply. But she was too late, for Regner already thought of something crude to say.

"Couldn't miss the hanging? You've been hunting easy prey too long, haven't you?" he taunted. Then, he let out an ugly laugh.

Edla frowned.

If this was Regner's idea of a joke, not only was it in bad taste, it was astoundingly inaccurate. People were easier prey than animals.

"The bells frightened everything away for miles. Trapped two rabbits, though. Can you skin them for me?" she asked, hoping that some divine miracle occurred overnight that compelled Regner to do a little work around the house for her.

Regner grunted. "Later. Remind me after the hanging."

Right. That would lead to several more "remind me laters" until Edla just did it herself. Lousy, good-for-nothing...

The door burst open and the twins flew outside in a flurry of giggles, hand-in-hand.

Mathilde, the eldest by minutes (as she often reminded her sister), had the fair hair and blue eyes of her father and fortunately none of his manner. She was exuberant, boisterous, lively. Margrethe took after Edla with her dark features, but she was solemn and careful in nature, hesitant to try new things unless her bold sister tried it first. Both were wearing the woolen frocks they usually reserved for attending sermons and had plaited each other's hair. At least her darling husband had told them to look presentable for the morning's gruesome spectacle. Though Regner was sore (of course) that she had not borne a son, he did care for the children in his own way. Edla would give him that much credit.

"A hanging! A hanging! Ma, there's gonna be a hanging!" Mathilde sang. She took Margrethe's other hand and they danced around in a circle, their boots kicking up snow.

Edla grimaced. She wished the girls weren't so excited about something as macabre as a public execution, but in a sleepy, snowy town like Bruma, there was little else so eventful. Even before the Oblivion Crisis troupes and fairs rarely traveled this far north. There was hardly reason to brave the frequent snow storms and the bears and wolves to come to a small town like Bruma.

Regner helped himself out of his chair, which was always a cumbersome ordeal with much groaning and grumbling. He often complained about his back or his knee or the like being sore. Edla reminded him that it was because he never used them.

* * *

The scaffold had been raised just outside the arch leading to the castle. With a town just shy of a thousand people, nearly everyone and their families had turned up to watch. Edla left Bones at home, though. Didn't want people stepping on her.

The entire city watch was there too. A couple dozen guards in chainmail and bucket helms. Edla didn't want to remind herself that this was their best defense against the Daedra.

The convicted was a male dark elf wearing trousers and no shirt. His body a bit more bulky than others of his kind, with strong sinewy arms and a tightly-muscled chest. It was terrible, she knew, but Edla couldn't help but wish that her husband's body were as sculpted as this elf's. Chief Inspector Carius led the dark elf out into the square, which aroused the usual boos and jeers from the crowd.

A woman threw a rotten apple core at him. _"Shoulda stayed in Morrowind!"_ she screeched.

They screamed all kinds of epithets at him, like "Ashborn" or "Gray-skin" along with simply calling him a "dirty elf."

The Dunmer stood unbent, eyes burning into the crowd. He wasn't even shivering in the cold.

While Mathilde was busy taking all of the excitement in, Margrethe looked confused, perhaps even a little upset. "Why do the Nords hate the elves?" she asked after the crowd had wound down enough for her to be heard. Of course she would ask a question like this. The twins often played with the daughter of the elves that owned Novaroma, and were too innocent to understand generations of conflict that fueled the hatred and bigotry.

Before Edla could answer, Regner cut in. "Haven't you read about King Wulfharth, or Ysgramor and his Five Hundred Companions?"

Margrethe nodded.

"Well," Regner continued. "In the stories of old, what was always the greatest enemy of the Nords?"

Margrethe thought for a moment. "Hubris?" she asked innocently.

Regner scowled. "What - No!" He was growing red in the face. "Elves! It's always been elves, since the moment our ancestors first set foot on Skyrim!"

Margrethe still did not seem satisfied with this answer. She gazed down at the ground with a cloudy look on her face, and Edla could tell that there was something she wanted to say, but was afraid to say it to Regner.

"Don't you mean the second time they set foot on Skyrim? There was a time when Nords and Elves could live in the same land without fighting each other, you know," piped up Mathilde cheerfully, apparently listening the entire time.

"What did you say?" demanded Regner. He was embarrassed at being corrected by a little girl, but he covered it with his blundering anger.

"Nothing, pa," said Mathilde, rolling her eyes. "I think reading is a wonderful thing." Margrethe giggled, and then coughed to conceal it. Even Edla was smiling.

Regner didn't respond. The city officials had started moving again, coaxing the prisoner up the raised platform.

When the prisoner had climbed the scaffold, Chief Inspector Carius stood next to him and unfurled a scroll. The Imperial began to read in his authoritative voice which carried far enough that the folks in the back could hear.

"We gather here today to witness the execution of Raynil Dralas. The prisoner has been found guilty by the Court of Bruma of the following crimes within our jurisdiction: the murders of Bradon Lirrian and two unidentified beggars, larceny, impersonation of an authority figure, perjury, presenting false evidence, fleeing from arrest, and tax evasion."

"He never paid for his drinks, neither!" yelled Olav's voice from somewhere behind Edla in the crowd.

Edla searched the mob for Erline Lirrian. The widow stood close to the gallows, clutching a pendant around her neck. She was too far away for Edla to see her expression, but she hoped that the Breton felt at least somewhat vindicated on account of her husband's wrongful death. To think that they all believed Bradon to be a vampire only because a Dunmer in a tailored frock and a silk cravat told them it was so…

"Imperial law allows the convicted a brief statement prior to formal execution. Have you any last words, Raynil Dralas?"

Seemingly from out of nowhere, an Imperial with a pen and a scroll appeared, standing close enough to the prisoner to be able to hear him.

The Dunmer spat at the ground. "Make it quick." He was definitely from Morrowind; he sounded as if he still had ash in his throat.

The scribe dutifully took down these words and disappeared back into the throng.

"Very well," continued Carius. He did not have any decorations that distinguished him from an ordinary guard, and he wore the same yellow tabard as the other guards, bearing the wyvern sigil of Bruma. Yet everyone knew of his position, although he did not display it. "By the will of Countess Narina Carvain, the Court of Bruma hereby sentences you to be hanged by the neck until death ensues."

The hangman was wearing a black hood over his face, but Edla knew he was one of the city watch. They simply did not have enough executions in Bruma to warrant appointing an official executioner. He slipped the noose around the dark elf's neck. Only now did the prisoner begin to tremble, though his eyes still burned with defiance.

The executioner pulled a lever, releasing the trap door of the scaffold. The dark elf dropped, hanging by the neck. He was still alive, hands bound behind his back, swinging and kicking with his legs.

Oh, by the gods, the drop had not snapped his neck immediately. Edla glanced at her daughters. They had to watch _this_?

"Ma, why is he dancing?" Mathilde asked, tugging on Edla's sleeve. The prisoner continued his macabre dance, and the crowd went wild. Everyone loved a good execution, when 'good' meant 'messy,' of course, but all Edla could think about as she watched the prisoner violently swinging himself around was that it could have very well been her up there.

Her mouth felt dry and she could not think of the right words to say to her daughter. The initial drop had not broken his neck and now they all had to watch him suffocate to death?

"Sometimes people take longer to die."

"Oh. Well… he was a bad person, right?"

Edla felt a wave of nausea. The prisoner's eyes bulged, like two hot coals aflame. She had been a bad person, too. The only difference between her and Raynil Dralas was that he got caught. Well, no, that was giving him too much credit. There were more differences, of course. Edla had been a professional. Raynil's work was sloppy. Amateur. He hadn't covered his tracks well enough.

"Yes. He killed other people. He was a very bad person."

"But… what if he felt bad about it? When I told Father Arentus that I broke Margrethe's doll, he said the Divines would forgive me because I felt bad and could make it better by giving her my doll."

Edla shook her head, still not turning her eyes from the elf on the gallows. "Can't exactly make it better for the men he killed, can he?"

Perhaps this was why Edla Dark-Heart never spent any time on remorse. It wouldn't serve anyone but herself.

"No… I guess not."

Mathilde was quiet after that.

The bloodthirsty crowd on the other hand was going positively wild, whooping and stamping their feet.

The Dunmer was still flapping his arms up and down, though his hands were bound together at the wrists. Mathilde was looking away, but Margrethe stared, unblinking.

As did Edla.

Despite how much she complained about Regner, when she watched the dark elf's legs finally give up the struggle, his body dangling unmoving as his dead weight twisted the rope that supported him, she realized something that forced her to wipe tears from her eyes when no one was looking.

Edla was truly a lucky woman.


	17. Methredhel

**Imperial City, Elven Gardens District**

 **14 Sun's Dusk, 3E 433**

 **8:05 PM**

Methredhel quickened her pace. She was already late. The evening still had some daylight left, but the stars were visible against the clear blue sky.

It was a cloudless night. Good. She would be able to find her way back to the Waterfront without a light.

True, a thief of her caliber should know the city better than the palm of her hand. But Methredhel rarely came to the Elven Gardens district. Although it was one of the richest parts of the Imperial City and the coin purses hung heavy like overripe fruit ready to be plucked, on these streets Methredhel looked as dodgy as a Dremora at a six-year-old's birthday party. Too much heat for her comfort.

Speaking of heat...

The Bosmer cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. No sign of the guard that had been trailing her for the better half of an hour, the reason why she had to dip in and out of alleyways in an attempt to lose him. Maybe she was just paranoid; she hadn't heard him stomping around since she'd passed the King and Queen Tavern for the second time. But Methredhel couldn't risk anyone seeing where she was going, and she did _not_ want to get nicked when she was already late.

Gods, she really had to hoof it. Wouldn't do to keep the Guildmaster waiting.

11 Prince Juliek St. That was the address she had to commit to memory, since she wasn't so good at making letters. It led her to an opulent manor supported by marble columns, with an archway leading to a courtyard and private well. Nice place.

Methredhel ran up the white steps two at a time, her heart pounding. Though she had met with the Gray Fox many times by now, it always felt as though she were meeting him for the first time. An odd thing that she couldn't explain, but there were a lot of odd things about the Gray Fox that she couldn't explain.

She had barely knocked when a rather swanky Dunmer opened the door.

"Shadow hide you," she greeted brusquely. This must have been Othrelos.

His tunic was decorated with silver buttons and he wore silk hose. His black hair was tied back with a ribbon, and he smiled at Methredhel and stepped aside, beckoning for her to enter.

"Shadow hide you, sister. We have been expecting you."

All at once Methredhel felt underdressed. She crossed her arms over her chest in a vain attempt at concealing her worn leathers. _This_ dandy of a Mer was in the Thieves Guild?! He was new money, of course, but still swanky.

The interior was just as posh as the facade, lit by candles in gold candlesticks, windows shrouded by velvet curtains, burgundy carpets, the works. Lots of oil paintings decorated the walls, too. The rich spent piles of dosh on art for whatever reason, and with the right fence Methredhel could have made a fortune from the paintings in this room alone. It was too bad that they were a bit cumbersome to abscond with. Especially in a house with tiny windows like this one.

Othrelos chuckled, as if noticing that Methredhel was casing his anteroom. She looked up to flash him a reassuring grin. Just an old habit of hers to examine her surroundings; she wouldn't filch a Septim from someone in the Guild.

"Fancy crib you've got here, cully," she remarked brightly.

"You flatter me," said the Dunmer. "But I was much like you, in my youth, only much less promising. Keep your ambition, your buoyant spirit; if what I've heard about you is true, you may soon find yourself with more than just a fancy abode."

Methredhel wasn't certain what he meant. She would have been happy with a fancy house like this for Carwen and herself, but more was always good.

The Dunmer guided her gently, his footsteps as light as hers. He led her into a dining hall, the table already set for two, a silver carafe in the center with two long-stemmed crystal chalices at each side.

The Gray Fox stood when Methredhel entered the room. He _stood_ for her, and then bowed from the waist, as though she were a lady! Her heart soared and she suddenly felt light as she breezed into the seat across from him.

"Ah, miss. So good of you to join me. Do you care for some wine?"

"What's all this pomp about, eh? I smell a bribe," she teased, examining the fluting on the stem of the chalice.

The Gray Fox poured red wine from the decanter into the glasses with some amount of grace. He really did act like he was a gentleman, the kind that would throw down his coat for her to walk to the carriage. Methredhel briefly considered sneezing just to see if he would pass her a handkerchief.

"A bribe, you say?" the Gray Fox asked with some amusement. He brought his face closer to his wine glass and sniffed. "I smell… hmm, bit fruity, definitely Surilie grapes, aged in an oak cask… my guess would be a vintage from before 340. But it is not a bribe; I respect you far more than that. I enjoy nice things, and sharing them with my favorite colleagues."

Methredhel's eyebrows shot up. This wine was about a century old? And they were going to _drink_ it?!

"One glass of this is worth more than five hundred drakes, at least. You _sure_ you're not trying to grease me?" she asked with a frown, staring at the deep red wine within her chalice.

The Guildmaster chortled.

"You're still going on about the wine? If you can complete this next heist… well, you'd be able to sip hundred-year-old vintage like water. You'll just have to trust me," he said. "Congratulations, by the way. Procuring those boots could not have been easy." He raised his glass with a gloved hand.

Methredhel clinked her glass against his, and the wine swished dangerously close to the rim. She placed it down carefully, not wanting to waste any.

"Bet you thought I was snuffed for good by that old bag of bones," she said. "Pray tell you're not about to order me to rob another prissy blood-sucker in a frock coat. I've really come to hate vampires, you know."

Methredhel finally took a sip of the wine. It tasted… like wine. She wasn't much of a connoisseur, and wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between a 340 and a 415, but she appreciated the gesture. The way rich folk went on about this vintage or that, one would think it tasted like Dibella's breastmilk.

"Oh, no, nothing like that," said the Gray Fox. The shroud covered all of his face save for his lips, which were smiling now. "I'm going to ask you to steal an Elder Scroll."

Methredhel nearly choked on the hundred-year-old wine.

She swallowed hard.

"A _what?_ What for flout is this? Steal an Elder Scroll? You've lost all your beans this time, you have!" she blustered. He had to be joking.

But he wasn't laughing.

"Isn't… isn't that dangerous?" Methredhel ventured in a voice that surprised her with its meekness.

The Gray Fox was still smiling enigmatically. He leaned back, hiding himself even more in the shadows.

"Of course it is. But what isn't dangerous, in your profession?"

The Bosmer had to think about that. Before she started answering directly to the Gray Fox, she might have mentioned robbing the blind, the deranged, or the dead. Recent events… proved what a gull she had been.

"Nabbing sweetcakes from a baby," Methredhel muttered.

"Even stealing from the wrong baby can lead to a capital conviction, if you're supremely unlucky."

"But that's why we're in the Guild, eh, cully? Luck, and strength in numbers and all."

"Luck. Perhaps." The Gray Fox nodded. He looked contemplative. Or at least, she thought he did, beneath the mask. "Is that truly your reason for joining the Guild?"

Methredhel placed a finger on her lower lip. "I… s'pose it was for Carwen, in the end," she confided.

"You love her?"

She smiled, crossing her legs and looking up at the glittering chandelier.

"Yea, so much for the die-hard I try to be. I was always a gutter rat, but Carwen… she was born a real lady. Fell into hard times, on account of her folks, and she was the one that had to carry their debts. Ended up dancing at a lodge in Silvenar, if you catch my meaning."

Methredhel remembered seeing Carwen for the first time, trembling despite the sticky heat, pale and drenched in sweat and tears. Hiding under the bridge, they shared a stolen bottle of jagga and talked about everything, drunk and mosquito-bitten before sunrise.

"Got her to cross the border to Cyrodiil with me. Had to lie, cheat, steal, even kill for her. And I'd do it all over again, I would. I'm still trying to make things better for us, like I promised her."

The Gray Fox clapped his hands together.

"Well! What a noble soul you are, Methredhel."

"Aw, don't kid with me like that. I'm just a sneak thief. Carwen's the one with the heart. I'm not worth her salt, tell you the truth. Look at me, going on with all this fiddle-faddle about myself. What about you?"

The Gray Fox frowned. "What about me?"

"Did you ever love someone?"

The Gray Fox looked to the side, away from her inquisitive stare.

"Ah… I still do."

He was quiet for a while. Methredhel wasn't certain if he said something or not, but soon she heard him speak again.

"The nature of my curse… prevents her from remembering me. Oh, what extraordinary torment she suffers, to remember her love for the shadow of a man, unable to grasp even at the name of her beloved."

Methredhel leaned forward, the wine having loosened her inhibitions some. She wasn't certain what possessed her, but she reached out with both hands and grabbed his leather-clad shoulders, squeezed them, to feel that he was real, and not an apparition.

At first, he seemed to shudder. Not because she startled him; she had moved slow enough he would have expected it. It was almost like... he wasn't used to being touched. That had to be it. Yet the Gray Fox did not pull away from her.

She didn't know what she had expected, but he felt… warm. Alive. Rising and falling with each breath.

"Yes, Methredhel. Do you feel it? I am flesh and blood, just as you. I have a soul like any other man, and can be wounded, even killed. Behind this mask there is a face, a name, a _person_ , but that identity has been stripped away, my voice drowned by the thundering waves. And if I cannot break this curse after a lifetime of isolation and desperation, my name will forever be a smudge on the family tree. This… I thought I knew what it was to be alone. But I do not believe that anybody can understand that void until they have donned Nocturnal's Cowl."

Methredhel released him, retreated back into her chair. She felt frightened for him. What if his plan didn't work?

How was she going to steal an Elder Scroll?

If she botched this job, she'd be swinging by morning. Until now, she had been certain the Elder Scrolls were just the stuff of legends!

Last Tirdas, Methredhel thought she was in too deep when she narrowly escaped being flayed alive by an ancient vampire.

Now, she wasn't just in too deep, she was sinking to the bottom of the Abecean Sea!

Of course, the Gray Fox made it clear from their first meeting that she was not obligated to do anything for him, that these errands were of a personal nature and not official guild business. If Methredhel wanted to split, he'd open the door and let her be on her merry way.

Still… there was some terrible magic involved, and guildmates were supposed to help each other out when they were in a rough bind like this, right?

Most binds didn't require an Elder Scroll to break, though!

"I want to look upon your face," Methredhel said. "Without the mask."

Her answer came in the form of a long, drawn-out sigh, followed by a moment of silence.

The Gray Fox took another sip of his wine. Methredhel did the same, out of politeness.

"We have met a couple of times, when I was unmasked," he began, softly. "You would not recognize me as the Gray Fox, and you certainly would not remember my face. Even my own wife looks at me as if I were a stranger."

Had he not said this to her before? It was difficult for her to remember, but it felt as if this were not the first time they had this conversation.

Methredhel scowled.

"Humor me, cully. I've put so much stock in you, I want to know that you trust me, too."

The Gray Fox sighed again. At first Methredhel thought he wasn't going to do it, but with one abrupt gesture, he pulled off the cowl. There were no laces to untie, no clasps, no buttons. It was a single sheaf that fit so well it might have been tailored for him.

Methredhel squinted at the man staring back at her. Eyes dark green and impassive.

He was an Imperial - that much she could gather. Clean-cut and beardless, with short, brown hair atop his head. His features… there was nothing at all distinctive about his face; it looked like it could have belonged to a thousand other men. Anyone could lose him in a crowd; he was just so… ordinary. Like his name was Caius or Gaius and he went to the market to buy three peaches, from those dreadfully boring pamphlets the legionnaires of the outpost by her village would give to the poor Bosmer children in an attempt to teach them to read Tamrielic.

Who was she supposed to be speaking to, again?

She was here at Othrelos' new-money house, that much she knew, drinking hundred-year-old vintage with an absolute stranger for some unknowable reason. What was happening?

Othrelos was already gone - he had left the room without a sound at some point, leaving her alone with this… strange… man. She couldn't look at him; his features were so blurry and indistinct...

Methredhel's head felt heavy all of a sudden. She thought she might swoon - or worse, vomit. Had she been drugged? She stared at the gilded leaves on the table, but everything was swirling.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you this might happen," the stranger said to her in a familiar voice.

The Bosmer looked up.

There sat the Gray Fox in the seat across from her, mask concealing his face yet again. Eye holes hooded and casting shadows over his eyes as if they were the empty sockets of a skull. The Daedric characters almost seemed to glow in the candlelight. She couldn't read it, of course; she could barely read Tamrielic.

Most importantly, Methredhel felt she could breathe again. She gulped down more of the wine and the fog slowly began to disappear.

"I… that was weirdish. Did you take off your cowl just now?"

"Yes."

"You've done this before, haven't you?"

"Yes."

Methredhel shook her head. She didn't know what to say. "I'm… sorry."

The Gray Fox smiled.

"You said that the last time."

The Bosmer smacked the table with her fist. The glassware rattled. "Meridia's teeth!" she exclaimed.

"You did that, as well."

"Right, right, you've had your fun, now you're starting to vex me. Let's talk about this scroll busy-ness, cully."

The Gray Fox locked his fingers together in an arch. "Let us start from the top. Your name is now Celia Camoran, and tomorrow evening the Moth Priests will be expecting you at the reading room of the Imperial Palace."

Methredhel grimaced. "Reading room?"

"Don't worry, you don't actually have to read anything."

"You're a riot."

The Gray Fox laughed, then kindly poured more wine for her.

"Now, listen carefully; what happens next is very important…"


End file.
